


To Sail On Greenwaves

by Rhiannon_A_Christy



Series: These fields of Green [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-Book(s), Romance, bookverse, fluff with a bit of angst, multi-chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-06-07 13:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6806305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhiannon_A_Christy/pseuds/Rhiannon_A_Christy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love can burn like fire, or soothe like cool water. Sometimes it's warm and comforting, sneaking up on you when you least expect it. Eomer and Lothiriel meet when Eomer brings back an old Rohirrim Tradition; The Great Hunt, in order to feed his people through the winter. A story of friendship, healing, and the road to love. Same verse as The Echoes of War and Blessings Peace.<br/>---------</p><p>After the end of the war, Éomer reinstates several old traditions of the Rohirrim. In inviting the sons of Prince Imrahil to join them in celebration, he is surprised to find Princess Lothiriel among the Dol Amroth party. For her part the young princess is taken with both Rohan and it’s King, and Éomer finds himself just as enchanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> A.N: 1: A note before we start, while this will follow book canon as closely as I can get it when it comes to what happened before (with a few liberties taken in regards to Lothiriel and the two younger brothers and their position during the war and other such things), I have elected to change one big thing. Eomer and Lothiriel do not meet while Eomer is in Gondor, instead when Imrahil visits Rohan. Also, I think it is pretty easy to figure that Karl Urban is my Eomer, cause damn.

**Book One: For the Dancing and the Dreaming**

_Part One:_

* * *

 

Looking out over the burial mounds, Éomer could scarcely believe both his uncle and cousin were gone. He imagined if he closed his eyes he would hear their laughter drifting down from Meduseld. This was not the way it was supposed to turn out; this shouldn’t be his life. Though fate it seemed had its own plans, and now he stood garbed in the cloth of kings.

The land that rolled out before him like a grand living tapestry was his to command, and his to protect. He stood alone, as his sister would soon leave to wed Faramir. Éomer was no stranger to death and loss, his life seemed defined by it. Still, he wondered how much more should be taken from him.

“I had hoped Éowyn had been wrong.” Erkenbrand rounded the edge of the mound, his arms resting loosely behind his back. He had watched as his king had left the hall several hours ago, dismissing his counselors with feeble excuses. He had known the younger man since he had been a toddling lad, tripping over his mother’s skirts. Never in all his years had he thought the boy would take on the mantle of king. Even so, he knew Éomer to be a good man. One that had proved his worth and would rule Rohan with heart.

“Should I not pay my respects to my uncle? It was he who raised me as his own; he was my king.” Éomer knew that there would never be a way to repay all that his uncle had done for him and his sister. He could kneel before his uncle’s tomb every day until his bones grew frail and brittle, and still he would never express his thanks well enough.

“Pay your respects, but do not linger on death. Théoden King would not have had it.” Erkenbrand placed his hand on the young king’s shoulder. So much had been paid by the King’s family for the freedom of their people.

“And what would he have had, Erkenbrand? A starving people destined for a hard winter? This war has taken much from us.” Éomer turned from the burial mound, his eyes gazing out towards the city.   
Everyday Éomer watched as his people toiled to raise Rohan back to the glory she had once been. A glory he feared would never come. So few days had gone by from the end of the war, but already Éomer could see the futility of the work. The Enemy had known with what weapon to strike, and strike they did. Now he feared he would watch as his people slowly died because there was not enough food to fill every belly.

“Much, yes, but not our hope. We are a hearty and hale people, ever have we weathered through difficult times. This shall be no different.” Hanging his hand back at his side, Erkenbrand followed his King’s gaze. Even now their people worked to ready themselves for the coming winter. The streets were filled and busy, the chatter of everyday life rose up around them.

“Our stores run low, and I would not see our children go hungry.” Éomer walked a few steps towards the path that lead back to the hall, stopping to look back at his old friend. He had thought long and hard since news of the stores had reached him. It was his duty to provide for their people, to make sure that they would survive the winter. “What do you recall of The Great Hunt?”

“Much, I had been young when I had first joined the Hunt. It used to be a glorious time. Surely you recall something of it, you were young but not a babe when the last Hunt gathered.” Erkenbrand smiled, The Great Hunt had once been an important event in Rohan. Celebrations would start a week before, preparations several more. It was a tradition that had been first observed in the days of Eorl, and one that Rohan hadn’t seen in many a year.

“I remember riding out with my father, and how proud Mother was when I brought home a stag.” It was one of the few memories Éomer could recall that brought him joy. Mother had been overjoyed when he had rode into Edoras with the stag’s antlers strapped to the back of his horse. He still carried the dagger she had fashioned from them. “I believe it is time for our people to remember who they are.”

“You mean to bring back The Great Hunt?” It had been a great loss when Theoden King had called off the Hunt after the death of his sister, though no one blamed him. All had thought the Hunt would resume the next year, but their king had been dealt a great blow and could not see reviving the tradition.

“I mean to bring back many traditions. It is time, do you not think?” Back before his uncle’s illness, before war waged fiercely on the Mark, he had spoken of the Great Hunt with Theodred. His cousin spoke of his desire to bring back the old traditions. Maybe this was a way to repay his family, but he knew also that it was something his people needed.

“Aye, it is.”

 


	2. To Heal The Wounds Of War

 

For the first time in a very long time the halls of Dol Amroth were filled with laughter that echoed from every room. High spirited voices could be heard from the private dining room amongst the clicking and clattering of utensils. Elphir placed a buttery shrimp in his mouth as he watched his young son run amuck, his wife chasing after him. Everything was as it should be, or at least close to it. Once their father returned he knew Dol Amroth would once again be right. Though after the missive they had received just that morning he knew that would be some time yet.

“I wonder what manner of festival Rohan celebrates?” Erchirion sipped at his wine, the smile at his lips wide as he watched his nephew steal a bit of honey cake from the service table. If Íril didn’t stop him, she would never get him to sleep that night.

“The birth of a new foal I would suspect, but then they would surely be busy with such things every year.” Amrothos leaned back in his chair, content in spending time with his siblings instead of the back of a horse.

While their father and Elphir had been gone it had been up to him and Erchirion to protect the borders of their land. A contingent of knights had been left to their command, and Lothíriel had informed them that it would be best if they bunked with them during the time. Of course she had been right, but it still didn’t mean he was happy to have spent so long sleeping on a hard cot instead of his bed.

“Watch your tongue, Rothos, I have fought beside these people and they are not subjects for jest. They are a strong and proud people, good hearted and hard working.” A sigh fell from Elphir’s lips. He didn’t expect his brothers to understand, not truly. They had been stuck back here while he had been away with Ada. Still, it was important that they learn to respect their allies.

“I meant no harm. Though Rion makes an excellent point. We have fought in war, and the Rohirrim have lost both their King and Prince. What have they to celebrate?” It seemed strange to Amrothos that after such loss the King would throw a festival. Let them be glad that the Shadow has been lifted, but mourn what they lost.

“And what have we to celebrate, Rothos? Have not we been to war beside them, have not we lost many close to us? Our own uncle and dear cousin have fallen in this war, and yet here we sit drinking wine and laughing. By your thought we should be cloistered away weeping our misfortunes.” Lothíriel turned swiftly to look at her brother. She understood that so much had been lost in the war, but nothing would be accomplished if everyone locked themselves away and refused to heal. They had not the time as the elves do sit in contemplation and sorrow. One only had to look at their uncle to see what came of man in regards to such.

“Sometimes, Dear Sister, you sound too much like Mother for your own good.” Amrothos raised his glass to her before taking a healthy drink. Everyday his dear sister grew more and more alike to their late mother. Not just in looks, but in temperament as well. He remembered well how Mother would scold him and his brothers for insensitive comments.

“You know as well as I, that she would scold you the same.” Lothíriel shook her head at the smirk that graced her brother’s lips. Sometimes she thought he spoke without thought just to rile her up.

“That is enough, both of you. Now is not the time.” Elphir pinched his nose, hoping to stave off the headache he could feel building there. He had missed his siblings when he had been at war, but he had conveniently forgotten how much the three liked to bicker.

“Too right, what we really should be discussing is when we shall depart.” Erchirion was eager to leave the confines of Dol Amroth. He loved his home, and had no wish to live elsewhere, but he had been left behind by his father and brother and he longed for a bit of adventure himself.

“On the morrow if I had any say.” Amrothos downed the rest of his wine in one gulp, ignoring the admonishing look Íril sent his way. She might have held sway over Elphir, but he had little care what she thought, she was not his wife.

“I thought you were against such a thing?” Lothíriel snatched the decanter of wine before Amrothos could refill his glass. On more than one occasion she had had to retrieve him half-nude from the gardens when he had drank more than his share.

“Nay, not against. I merely wondered what it was we would be celebrating. I shall be glad to travel beyond these walls.” Amrothos gestured around him as he spoke the last with barely contained bitterness. He had been angry at their father for refusing to allow him to accompany him. He understood that their borders needed protecting, but he was old enough to join the war alongside his oldest brother.

“Aye, I suppose all three of you will enjoy a sojourn to the north. You deserve it for all that you have done during the war.” Elphir sighed again, this time in contentment as little Alphros crawled up in his lap and placed his head against his chest. Hopefully before the meal was finished his son would have drifted off to sleep.

“Do not you mean to go?” Lothíriel looked at her oldest brother oddly. When he had returned he had spoken of the Rohirrim, and quite highly of their king. She would have thought he would wish to visit again under more merry means.

“No, you shall go in my stead, Sister. Though I would ask you to give the King my apologies for remaining behind.” There were those that were capable to watch over Dol Amroth for the time the four siblings would be in Rohan, but Elphir had enough of travel for the time being.

“You deserve rest as much as the rest of us. Come, Elphir, join us.” Erchirion hadn’t read the letter and invitation for their father, but he was sure he hadn’t discounted one of them.

“My mind is quite made up on the matter, I shall remain in Dol Amroth while the three of you will visit Father in Rohan.” Elphir rested one hand on Alphros’ head, playing with the child’s downy hair. “Now, finish your meal, for if you wish to depart tomorrow you will need to prepare this evening.”

* * *

 

Lothíriel padded softly down the hall, her feet making little noise on the rug beneath her. The sun had set several hours before, leaving Dol Amroth in darkness. Lothíriel loved this time, when the moon’s light set the white buildings of the land aglow. When she had been a small child she had fancied that it had been some remnant of Elf magic left over.

The door to her father’s study was open, much as she had expected. Ever since returning, Elphir had spent his evenings by the hearth in the grand room. Sometimes his wife and son would join him, Íril stitching quietly while little Alphros slept on the rug by the fire. The scene always tugged at her heart, reminding her of when her and her brothers had been young and spent evenings there alongside their father and mother. Now though the evening had long since moved on to night, and both her sister-in-law and nephew would be in bed.

“You will find it difficult to wake in the morning if you persist in wondering around the halls instead of sleeping.” Elphir looked up from the book he had been reading, his eyes adjusting to look at his sister. He had heard her moving about for sometime. She had never been quiet, even as a child she had made such a racket as she sneaked about at night.

“I have grown accustomed to little sleep.” Lothíriel stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. She was not sure when last she slept through the night. Even now that the war was over and won it took time to fall asleep, and rarely did she stay that way.

“I… You shouldn’t have had to. You are so young Loth; too young.” Elphir closed the book in his lap before placing his head in his hands. His sister should have no other worry than her wardrobe, but the world had imposed itself upon her so early. She had taken up the mantle of their father and ruled Dol Amroth whilst both of them were away. He had heard from their brothers how she had maneuvered the remaining knights when enemies sought to attack. If not for her there might not have been a home to return to.

“There are no children in the wake of war.” Lothíriel sighed and went to stand beside her brother, one hand slowly running through his hair. All three of her brothers kept their hair in long wild waves much as their father, though Amrothos had taken to adding a small braid or two. He imagined himself to look much like an elf.

“I still wish that such a burden had never been placed on your shoulders.” The feel of his sister’s hand was soothing to Elphir. He thought on their brother’s words at evening meal earlier, of how much like their mother Lothíriel had become. Mother had done the same thing to each of them when they were troubled, slowly ran her fingers through their hair as she spoke of absolutely nothing.

“And what of your burden?” Lothíriel slid her other hand along Elphir’s jaw, grasped it and forced him to look at her. All of her brothers had the habit of worrying about her whilst ignoring their own troubles.

“I suppose we both have reasons for sleepless nights.” He removed her hands from him and took them both in his. He pulled her around his chair so she faced him as he stood. “Come, if you will not go to bed, sit with me awhile.”

Lothíriel allowed Elphir to sit her down in the chair next to his, her brother patting her hands before walking over to the desk. She watched on silently as he poured a small glass of the warmed wine Íril no doubt had sent over before retiring. She took the glass with a small nod of her head, taking a sip before speaking.

“Elphir, you should join us. There are those perfectly capable of watching over Dol Amroth while we are gone. There is no need for you to sequester yourself away here.” Taking another, larger drink of the wine, Lothíriel looked over to her brother. The warmth from the drink trickled down to settle gently in her stomach.

“You make it sound as though I’ve decided to barricade the doors once you leave.” Elphir turned in his seat, an amused smile on his face that quickly vanished as he continued. “No, Lothíriel, it is not out of duty to our people that I remain. I have seen too much; been gone far too long. Now I only wish for quiet and the love of my wife and son.”

“I could stay, if that is what you wish, and continue Father’s work. I’m sure Íril and Alphros would enjoy themselves in Rohan.” She moved closer to the edge of her chair, her eyes on the diminishing fire. It would have to be stoked soon if her brother planned on remaining awake much longer.

“Lothíriel, you act as though you do not want to go. Surely you would welcome rest.” Elphir watched as his sister removed her eyes from the fire, casting them onto the cup in her hands. He wanted to reach out to her, gather her in his arms like he used to when they were younger and Lothíriel came running to him because of terrors in the night. He remained seated, knowing his sister was no longer that little girl frightened of the dark.

“I… Things have changed since you and Ada left, I have changed.” Sometimes Lothíriel wondered how much she had changed. She had never been like many of the ladies of Gondorian court. As the Princess of Dol Amroth it had always been expected of her that she would be able to rule should circumstances turn that way. Her childhood had been filled with studies; history, diplomacy, etiquette, tactical lessons from her father and the captain of the guard. Among these she also learned to run a household, a lesson she had to put into practice too early when her mother died. She wondered now about how different she really was after doing as she had been taught. Was she changed or simply grown enough to finally understand?

“In that you are correct, you have grown up. I never thought to see the day when my Pretty Little Swan would become such a beautiful woman.” Elphir reached over and flicked a strand of her hair. It seemed like only yesterday that Lothíriel had run about barefoot through the halls of Dol Amroth.

“Now you aim to flatter.” She kept herself from rolling her eyes, but it was a hard thing to do with her brother.

“Nay, you may not have noticed, but I saw the look that our returning Knights gave you. It was as though they had trudged through unending darkness, and with your presence came the light.” Elphir had been stunned when he had rode back into the city. He had watched as several of his men’s eyes lit up, bright smiles filled with awe and wonder spreading over their faces. He had turned towards where their eyes had been directed and saw his sister flying down a set of stone stairs to get to him. He had wanted to knock several of the men off their horses, but he had known Lothíriel would not have had it.

“Even so, I still think it should be you that travels to Rohan.” Lothíriel sat fully back in her chair again, her eyes anywhere but on Elphir. It was embarrassing enough to have him speak of such things, but she also knew somewhat of what he spoke. She would never tell her brothers, but after the return of the knights she had gained several admirers. It seemed as though there wasn’t a day gone by that she didn’t have a man vying for her hand.

“And yet it is not I who will be going.” He was getting tired of explaining his reasoning, earlier each of his brothers cornered him to express the same thing. Though both of them were more easily put off than Lothíriel.

“Would not it be an insult to the king should you not go?” She had only the basic understanding of the politics of Rohan as so little had ever been recorded by their scholars. Even so, she was sure such a thing could be considered a slight against the new king.

“I have met the king, and Éomer is no stranger to family. He would not begrudge me time with my wife and son.” Perhaps he should travel to Rohan with his family, but the war had drained him and he held no desire to leave Dol Amroth. Éomer and his father would surely be disappointed, but he was sure neither of them would blame him.

“What is he like, the king? I have heard tale from our men that he is as tall as a troll with shoulders the width of five horses.” Lothíriel smiled thinking about the overheard conversations between the knights. It seemed they admired the new king of Rohan.

“Nothing so fantastical, I assure you. Though I would love to see his face should anyone ever describe him as thus to his face.” Elphir laughed at such and image. “No, he is great in stature, but nothing so large. He is tall and wide, with a fierce countenance that could easily frighten. But there is a gentleness in him, though he lets so few see. I only saw a glimpse of it when he spoke to his sister.”

“I hear that our dear cousin has been bewitched by the King’s sister.” Lothíriel drained the last bit of her wine as she settled fully in the chair, finally relaxed.

“Aye, that he has. She is a beautiful thing, strong willed and brave. I believe she will be good for Faramir.” And from what Éomer had told him, he was sure Faramir’s gentleness would be good for her. It seemed strange to him that his cousin would fall for one so strong willed, but perhaps anyone else would have crumbled under his care.

“He deserves some happiness after everything he has endured.” Lothíriel closed her eyes, a single tear sliding down her cheek. Though older than her, she had been close enough with Boromir that his death grieved her.

“As do you, which is why you will be heading tomorrow for Rohan.” Elphir stood from his chair and carefully maneuvered his sister from hers and towards the door. “It is also why you shall now be going to bed.”

Lothíriel turned to embrace Elphir, her arms holding on to him tightly. They had lost a great many things in the war, but she found herself most grateful for the fact that both her brother and father returned safe and whole. She pulled back from him, and with a soft ‘goodnight’ she slipped out the door and headed to her own chambers.

* * *

 

“It is an ill-conceived plan, my King. Even now there are still rouge orcs that evade us, attacking where they can. This is not a time for such festivities.” Elfhelm waved his hand towards the window where one could see the preparations for the Great Hunt underway. He had been in conference with Éomer King for the past hour, planning for the coming winter and what defenses were needed to protect the Mark from those that still wished harm on their people. Only his king seemed intent on frivolousness instead.

“And when is? When our people have starved to death?” Éomer slammed his hand down on the table, the mug of ale resting there coming close to tipping. He knew his decision would be met with caution by some, war had not been long gone from the land. Though he had hoped that his men would understand the necessity of the Hunt beyond uplifting the people’s spirits.

“I do not mean that we should not provide for the winter, but to send out so many of our men when they would be better served at home. We could gather a few, send them to hunt.” Elfhelm thought about the Hunts of old, they had been glorious but now was not the time to reinstate such a tradition.

“I believe our King has more in mind than meat for the table. So many have been hewn down, burned and run out of their homes. After so long in the dark should we not bring what light we are able?” Erkenbrand sat down in a chair, his long legs pushing back until he could rest his head against the wall. He watched as his king and Elfhelm practically circled each other, both intent on making their point. He knew that no amount of celebrations could heal the wounds that had been torn in Rohan, but he also knew how damaging it would be to wallow in sorrow. That was the way wounds festered.

“Then have Meduseld host a feast, but to send so many out into the Mark now would be folly.” Elfhelm thought about the destruction he had already seen being made by rogue orcs. To send their men away from the cities and settlements would mean death as the orcs took advantage.

“And with what meat would I feed the people at such a feast? Our stores run low, and a few men could no more provide enough game than I could conjure it up from thin air.” Éomer had visited the stores of Edoras just days prior and found it worse than he had ever imagined. “I understand you, Elfhelm, even this morning I received reports of orcs attacking small farms. But I would ask you this; what would you have me do? I will not see Rohan delivered from Shadow only to fall to hunger.”

“Surely the new king of Gondor…”

“Has his own people to worry about. This desolation has not hit only Rohan, but all of Middle-Earth. I would not ask him for help, not when I can provide it myself.” He knew that Aragorn would send all that he was able, but Éomer would hear nothing of asking it. Gondor had its own set of worries, it was not their place to provide for Rohan.

“But to bring back the Great Hunt?” Elfhelm shook his head, already mourning the deaths such actions would cause.

“Even if I had half the mind to cancel, I ask you what should I do about Prince Imrahil? He has already sent word to his sons and they would already be on their way here. Would you have me tell them to turn back?” Éomer knew that Imrahil would never hold it against him. Still, such a thing would be a slight to Dol Amroth, and Éomer was loath to do it.

“I would have you think of the safety of our people.” Elfhelm could hardly care less what insult was given to princes of another land if it meant keeping their people safe from harm. Let them think they were barbaric and crass if it kept death far from Rohan.

“And I have. The Hunt will be smaller than in times past, I shall bring only the numbers needed to gather enough game for the winter. The rest will be stationed at every city and settlement.” Éomer heard Erkenbrand huff a laugh, but ignored him as he watched Elfhelm.

“A lot of argument could have been prevented had you spoken of this earlier.” Elfhelm ran a hand over his face and down his beard, he was too tired to deal with this.

“As it would have had you more faith in me.” Éomer clasped a hand on Elfhelm’s shoulder, a small smile on his lips.

“Never doubt my faith in you, my King. But even the wisest among us can sometimes be blinded by our good intentions.” Elfhelm patted the hand on his shoulder, a grimace pulling at his mouth. He leaned his hip against the table and took up his mug of ale. He would have to visit the little tavern further out from the city, it was run by an old widow and she always made sure he got the best ale when he came by. He decided he needed it after talking to his king.

“I think the same could be said for you, Elfhelm.” Erkenbrand dropped the front legs of his chair to the ground with a loud bang, the wood creaking as he stood.

“Perhaps, though perhaps we are all guilty of it.” Elfhelm raised a brow before downing the warm ale. Erkenbrand had always had the ability to make him feel like a lad again with a well placed word. How many times had he been scolded for speaking out of turn when he was younger?

“Enough discussion on this matter I think. There is much left to be done in the Mark before the hunt and winter.” Éomer wished he had more time to prepare and gather for his people, but the cold months would be approaching soon and he would see that every belly in Rohan was filled with meat and bread.

“Of course, my Lord.” Erkenbrand bowed quickly, his steps echoing through the halls as he left. The clip of Elfhelm’s steps soon following.

Éomer leaned against the table, one hand upon the wood while the other pinched the bridge of his nose. He was tired, so little time had he for rest since returning to Edoras, and little time he would have for it still.

“Elfhelm is as faithful to you as he was our uncle.” Éowyn stepped fully into the hall, coming to stand beside her brother. She placed a single hand on his shoulder, smiling when he placed one over it.

“I do not doubt this.” Éomer sighed, patting his sister’s hand before straightening up. Perhaps it had been wrong of him testing Elfhelm as he had, but the incident with Wormtongue made him more cautious. Not that he ever really doubted the man.

“Then what do you doubt?” Éowyn hated to see her brother looking so downhearted. The both of them still grieved for the loss of their cousin and uncle, but Éomer had an additional burden to bear.

“I was not born for this, Éowyn. It should never have been my place.” Éomer gestured towards the throne, a place he had yet the courage to sit. To do so would make it too real, make the fact that Uncle was gone far too real.

“Maybe it is not other’s faith in you that you must worry about, but your own.” A soft sigh escaped Éowyn’s lips. Her brother had always been strong, and secure in others’ faith in him. The war had changed much, and here she could see its changes in Éomer. “How have you not seen how Uncle raised us? As a father he never imagined the death of his son, but as a king… as a king he had a duty to his people to prepare. You may not realize it, but Uncle taught us both all that we needed to know.”

“If you have this knowledge, tell me what you would do regarding the Hunt?” Éomer grew weary of the arguments surrounding his decision, at times he doubted it himself. If his sister could shed some light on the problem he would follow her.

“If you are expecting me to side with Elfhelm you are wrong. He has not seen the stores or heard the reports our people tell of the devastation of farmland.” Éowyn had seen the state of not just the game stores, but of the granary. Elfhelm did not understand how hard Edoras had been hit, how much food Grima had stolen. Éowyn knew even with the Hunt the people of Rohan would have a harsh winter.

“You believe I have made the right choice?” He looked to his sister in hope.

“I believe you made the choice you felt would care for our people best. We need provisions for the coming winter, but it is more than that. A king must think on more than just the physical wellbeing of his people.” Éowyn knew that warriors sometimes forgot this. Sadly even kings forgot, but she knew her brother would not.

Éomer nodded before pulling out a chair and planting himself in it. He was quiet as he stared towards the throne, as though he expected their uncle to enter the room and seat himself there. After a moment he looked away towards Éowyn.

“Will you go with us, Sister?” He voice was softer than before, gone was the heaviness and authority he had used when talking to his two Marshals. It was no longer a King talking to an adviser, but a brother to a sister.

“Nay, I have had my fill of death, no matter what form it takes.” She had thought on it, wondering on how she would feel with a bow in her hands. When she had been younger she had envied those who joined her uncle for the hunt. She had wished to join her father and brother and bring back a stag big enough to make her mother proud. But she had been too young, and the Hunt had been stopped before she had become grown enough.

“You are much changed.” There had been a time that Éomer knew his sister would have been riding beside him to join the other hunters. The war it seemed had brought about a new found gentleness in Éowyn that was surprising.

“Perhaps, whether for good or ill, that is yet to be determined.” Had she changed overmuch? The despair that had filled her for so long had been chased away, and her desire for renown no longer there. Still, she felt as no other than Éowyn. Though perhaps a warmer, gentler version.

“I do not believe it a bad thing. You are much happier than I have ever seen you.” Éomer stood and took the few steps to his sister’s side. He grasped her hands in his and held them tightly. “And though I shall be sad to lose you, I rejoice that you have found happiness.”

“And I wish it on you. I shall not be able to enjoy my marriage knowing you will be miserable here.” She smiled, though it wasn’t as bright as she had lately. She was happy and looked forward to being married to Faramir, but it pained her heart to know she would be leaving her brother behind.

“I am not miserable, Sister. I only worry about our people.” Giving one last squeeze, Éomer let go of her hands and took a step back. “Though that is talk for another time. Tell me, if you do not plan to join the hunt what do you plan to do?”

“You forget how many preparations must be made here while you are out on the Mark. I will stay and direct things here.” Éowyn remembered when she had been younger it had been their mother’s job to oversee the preparations for the Great Hunt. Several weeks before the Hunt they would make the trip to Edoras where their mother would have an army of people at her disposal to do the work. Now, Éowyn would have less time and only a handful of servants to accomplish the same thing.

“I guess not as much has changed with you as I thought. You are still several steps ahead of me.” Éomer laughed at the raised brow of his sister. For the first time since the funeral of their uncle he felt as though he could possibly rest.

“As it should be.” Éowyn raised her chin haughtily, but after a moment laughed alongside her brother.

* * *

 

Lothíriel leaned against the edge of the boat, her fingers pressing gently into the aged wood. It had been years since she had traveled thus. She had almost forgotten the feel of the sway beneath her feet or the smell of the water in the air.

The wind whipped her hair about and Lothíriel laughed quietly. Gwaedhil, her handmaiden, had tried to insist she plait the thick mass and secure it to the crown of her head, but she would hear nothing of it. As a young child she had been forced to wear it in such styles during the warm months, and even then she despised it.

Lothíriel turned from the water and set her eyes on those around her, mainly her brothers. They laughed and jested with the crew, even helping when and where they could. She knew that Erchirion had dreamed of a life on the sea when he had been young. Now he stood proudly among those given the chance to live his dream, his mass of dark hair tied at the base of his neck. He looked at home there and it made Lothíriel’s heart hurt.

She had seen the change in her oldest brother. Before leaving with their father, before the war, Elphir had been like a bright star. He smiled and laughed, much like Erchirion now. The war had diminished him, faded his light until he was nothing more than a shade of what he once was. His mouth remained set most days, a hard line that mirrored the one between his brows. To think if her other brothers had gotten their way and left for war with their father they too would be so diminished.

A faint chill in the air forced Lothíriel to pull her shawl tighter around herself. Turning her gaze away from her brother she once again gazed out at the water. The days were starting to grow colder in Dol Amroth, but from what she had heard it would be more than simply uncomfortable in the north. Gwaedhil had packed all their warmest clothes, even taking the heavy fur lined cloak from the chest at the foot of her bed. She had never had chance to wear the cloak, it had been her mother’s, a gift from her father when she had been heavy with their first child. It was a beautiful cloak, and Lothíriel wondered if she would have the chance to wear it in Rohan.

Movement from the corner of her eye caught her attention and she groaned. Gwaedhil walked unsteadily towards her, her own hair tied tightly to the back of her neck and a thick shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Though what made Lothíriel groan was the long scarf in her hands. There was only one reason for it, and she knew the older woman would be insistent.

“If you will not permit me to bind your hair, at least allow me to secure this over your head. The knots will be impossible to remove.” Gwaedhil lifted up her hands, the edges of the scarf blowing in the wind. She could not understand why her Lady insisted on wearing her hair unbound, she hated having the knots brushed.

“If I must.” Lothíriel turned around, kneeling down as she stood almost a head taller than her handmaiden.

“And you should not stand so close to the edge, my Lady.” Gwaedhil made quick work of gathering her Lady’s hair and binding the scarf around her head.

“I am in no danger of falling, I am a daughter of Dol Amroth after all.” Lothíriel wanted to shake her head, but Gwaedhil still had her hands in her hair. She felt no fear of drowning, even if she did stumble overboard she could swim just as well as any man in Dol Amroth.

“Even so, I wish you would rest. Much has been placed on you these past years, and you deserve this time.” Gwaedhil stepped away, pulling the shawl tightly around her so the chilled air could not pass through. She had watched as the Princess took over her mother’s duties, and then her father’s. With each passing year she took on more and more, and Gwaedhil feared that one day she would break.

“And that would be the reason I am traveling to Rohan.” Lothíriel fiddled with the edge of the scarf, feeling trussed up in the accursed thing.

“I am not at all sure about such a place. I wonder of the women, I have heard they ride about like men.” Not to mention what she had heard about the King’s sister riding to war. How strange it all seemed to her.

“I am sure that they do not allow themselves to be carried about in grand carriages. They are a horse people after all.” From what she had heard, Lothíriel could hardly imagine such women allowing themselves to be pandered to.

“Why anyone would wish to ride in such a manner, I will never understand. I just hope that they do not expect us to go off astride a horse.” Gwaedhil was not a fan of horses or any of the creatures related to them. To her they were overlarge and smelled. In her opinion anyone wishing to ride upon one was in leave of their senses.

“I am sure my father has procured sufficient transport in Minas Tirith.” It mattered not that Lothíriel was perfectly happy on the back of a horse, having learned to ride at a young age. Propriety was what mattered, and she knew her father would never risk word getting out that the Prince of Dol Amroth cared so little for his daughter that he forced her to travel upon a horse without a proper carriage.

“Your father at least is a civilized man. I do not understand how a friendship between him and the Rohirrim king came about.” It was a matter that perplexed Gwaedhil, but also one she had no wish to think on too deeply. At least not while still on ship.

“From what my brother says I have a fair guess.” Lothíriel slipped her arm around Gwaedhil’s, pulling her closely as she began to slowly walk along the deck. “Now then, let us not speculate on this any further. We have plenty of time between here and Rohan, let us spend this time simply enjoying the water and the wind.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, finally got this done. Took me awhile as I’ve been sick so my brain has been mush most of the time. 
> 
> Alright, I just want to point out that Elfhelm is not going to be a bad guy in this, he had been thinking about the Great Hunts of old where a great deal of the men, and some women, went on the hunt.
> 
> Also, as to the Princes and Princess of Dol Amroth and how they refer to their father. I think they probably switch back and forth between Father and Ada, much like one would use Father, Dad, Daddy, and Pa, and others.
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


	3. In The Likeness of Kings

 

Lothíriel stepped from the carriage, her slippered feet coming to rest upon the white stones of Minas Tirith. The world around her was awash with activity as the work to repair the city continued. The ride from the docks had given time for Lothíriel to take in the condition of the city. It pained her to see the burial mounds along the Pelennor, many buried there had been men she had known. So easily could have her father and brother joined those poor souls, and that thought had forced her to turn away from the view.

Erchirion and Amrothos laughed as they dismounted their horses, though Lothíriel could see the strain in their faces. So many were dead and so much of the great city was destroyed. Steadying herself against the tears that begged to fall, Lothíriel felt the calming presence of Gwaedhil just behind her. The older woman leaned into her slightly, her arm pressing into her back.

“It is dismaying to see such damage.” Gwaedhil shivered as she looked out at the great city. No stone seemed to be untouched by the war, whether it be scorch marks, blood stains, or it have been cleaved in two. They all bore the marks of death.

“Aye, Elphir spoke of the destruction the battle wrought, but to actually see it…” Lothíriel swallowed down the tears that threatened to fall. To think that her father had been there, that him or Elphir could have been among the dead… it had given her nightmares.

“It makes one wonder…” Smoothing down her Lady’s hair, Gwaedhil turned herself away from the damage and towards the door instead.

“Perhaps, but though much was lost, much yet has been gained. The Shadow has been defeated, and its evil banished from our lands once and for all.” Lothíriel turned to take her maid’s hand, holding onto it tightly as she smiled. “And Gondor once again has a king.”

“A wonder in itself.” The handmaiden’s voice was filled with the same awe that most in Gondor had when speaking of their king.

Though Lothíriel did not outwardly say, she agreed with her handmaiden. For so long the people of Gondor believed the line of kings to be severed. There had always been those that held that the king would return, but for most that belief was nothing more than fanciful stories told to children. Her own mother would tell her the tale of the day the King would once again take the throne. She often fancied herself by his side in the way that young girls do. As she had grown and lost her mother such stories lost their interest. It seemed strange now that she would be meeting the king she had once dreamed about.

The doors to the citadel opened, bringing everyone’s attention to the welcoming party. Lothíriel had expected a group of servants headed by the adviser, it had been the way her Uncle had run things. He had placed a great deal of importance on propriety, saying that it was improper for him to greet his guests at the door like some commoner. So it came as a surprise when she set her eyes on the man at the head of the party.

The man stood taller than his companions, his hair gleaming under the silver crown upon his head. Lothíriel held her breath as she took in her first sight of King Elessar. She had seen the tapestries and paintings that hung in Minas Tirith of the Kings of old, and had she not known better she would have believed those images come to life, so alike was he to them.

“Welcome my friends, it is good to meet those I have heard much about.” Aragorn opened his arms in invitation to the small party. Prince Imrahil had spoken often and well of his other three children to any and all who would listen. It warmed his heart to see such a loving family.

“Hopefully Father tickled your ears with only good remarks.” Amrothos grunted as Erchirion jabbed his elbow into his side. It was not the first time that his older brother had acted thus, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last as Amrothos had no plans to change.

Erchirion quashed the urge to roll his eyes at his brother, moving to take the King’s preferred hand instead. Amrothos had never been the most diplomatic amongst the four of them, always mouthing off to the various Lords and their uncle. “I apologize for my brother, my Lord. Amrothos sometimes has less sense than a mule.”

“No apologies are needed, neither is there a need to stand on ceremony.” Aragorn gave a firm shake to the prince’s hand, moving on to take the hand of the younger man. “I am sure you are weary from your journey and would welcome some refreshment.”

“Our thanks, my Lord.” Erchirion gave a short bow. Elphir had told stories of their new king, but nothing could have prepared him for just how different he was from their uncle. King Elessar stood tall with a presence that screamed “king,” and yet he wore a bright, kind smile.

“Think nothing of it, I am happy to accommodate.” Looking behind the two princes, Aragorn spied a young woman. There was no mistaking the princess, even if Imrahil hadn’t talked his ear off. Leaving Prince Amrothos, Aragorn gave a deep bow to the young woman. “I am pleased to find your father’s description of you to be true, Princess Lothíriel. Will you do me the pleasure of allowing me to escort you inside?”

“Of course, my Lord. Though I am afraid that much of what my father told you about me you will find untrue. He does like to exaggerate.” Lothíriel felt her cheeks pink at the sweet smile King Elessar gave her. The man was handsome. Still, she slipped her arm through his when he offered it, her blush deepening as he patted her hand.

“I sincerely doubt that, my Lady. Now, shall we?”

* * *

 

Opening the door to her brother’s study, Éowyn slipped in quickly. She had little regard for her brother’s privacy at the moment, her only thought being a moment of quiet for herself. With a grace that came from years of practice, she flung herself down in the chair by the hearth.

“Should I ask what has left you looking so?” Éomer gave a quick glance at his sister, a smile playing about his lips as he took in her disheveled appearance. Her hair framed her face in a tangled mess, as though she had been pulling at it. It was a habit she had had since childhood, and one she had been scolded about many times.

“I have been up since before dawn making preparations for the Great Hunt. I am unsure if you understand what role you have placed me in.” Éowyn slumped down in the chair until she could rest the crown on her head perfectly on the back. “I have just come from the butcher’s, making arrangements for the use of the smokehouse. It seems as though most of it had been closed off since the last Hunt, and there are worries that it will not be ready in time.”

“I have faith in our people… and I have faith in you Éowyn. For years you have run things for our Uncle, you will have everything in hand before we even leave.” The smile on Éomer’s face softened. He had no doubt in his sister. He was sure had he perished in the war as well that she would have ruled their people with a kind and strong hand.

“Thank you.” Éowyn kicked at a bit of firewood by the hearth as though she were still a child. After a look from her brother she sat up, heaving out a heavy sigh. “I suppose I shall have to get used to all this again. After I am Faramir’s wife I shall be in charge of our house.”

“Which you will be magnificent at.” Sometimes Éomer wondered at his sister. She had disguised herself as a warrior to fight, killed the Witch King, and run Meduseld for their uncle for years. And yet at times she seemed much like a babe, unsure of her movements.

“I have not come here to plead help, Éomer, there is no need to flatter.” Éowyn rolled her eyes.

“I am doing no such thing. Can not a brother pay a compliment to his sister without suspicion?” He felt like pinching the bridge of his nose after he realized just how harsh his words had sounded. He really had no excuse except for the pressures put on him as king. It was a troublesome thought that he may not be able to feed his own people.

“Yes well…” Éowyn bit the inside of her cheek to keep from retorting back. Perhaps it had been a little rude of her to insinuate her brother had been anything but sincere in his complement. “What is you have been doing in here all day?”

“Many of the messengers I sent out arrived back this morning. Several men have agreed to join the Hunt and are gathering supplies.” And yet still several had declined, citing the need to protect their people over the Hunt. Not that he blamed them, had not the need for food been so great he would have never thought to leave the cities so soon after the war. “And then there is this.”

“A letter?” Éowyn turned so she could fully see her brother and the thick bundle of paper in his hand.

“Aye, Aragorn sent his reply to my invitation. He shall not be joining us, but he wrote that he will be sending provisions for Rohan along with the Princes of Dol Amroth.” It had come as little surprise that his friend would send supplies along even when they had been unasked for. He only wished that the Hunt would have been able to provide enough for the Mark as Gondor had problems of their own. Still, the Hunt would not yield the grains and vegetables needed.

“Had you expected him?” She had not known that Éomer had invited Aragorn, even if it should have seemed obvious. Though she no longer longed for him, Éowyn knew a part of her heart would always belong to that Ranger even if now she would look on him as a sister to a brother.

“No, Gondor has much to be repaired. Still, it would be considered a slight on our friends had I not invited him.” Not that Aragorn would have felt the sting, but being in the positions they were now they also had to think of the court.

“And what of Faramir, has the King spoken of him?” Some days it seemed as torture to be so parted from her betrothed. She knew a great deal needed to be done at home before they could wed, but sometimes the heart couldn’t understand what the mind knew to be right.

“Aye, though I think perhaps it would be best to allow him to speak for himself.” Éomer pulled a smaller letter from the bundle in his hand and tossed it to his sister with a smirk.

Éowyn caught the letter and eagerly opened it with no care to how she looked. She felt herself redden at a few of the suggestions Faramir had dared to pen down, somewhat surprised at how bold he had been. She was thankful that the seal hadn’t been broken, because she was afraid that Éomer might punch Faramir the next time they saw each other. Clearing her throat she looked up at her brother. “Faramir shall be joining his cousins on their journey here.”

“A man in love would never pass up the chance to see the object of his heart.” When Éomer had sent the invitation he had no doubt that Faramir would come. He knew that the two would already be wed if they could.

“And you, dear Brother, are beginning to sound much too flowery. I would ask if there was some maiden, but you have not left Meduseld in days.” Éowyn knew not when last her brother’s eye had set on some maid, and the thought saddened her. When she married she would leave Éomer alone with no family left in the Mark.

“Maybe your own romance has inspired something in me.” Éomer stood from his desk, crossing over to stand beside his sister. He placed a hand on her shoulder, smiling as she placed hers over it. “Or maybe I am simply enjoying a life without war.”

* * *

 

Fire crackled in the great hearth, filling Aragorn’s study with a warm glow. The day had been filled with laughter and stories of Dol Amroth and his own childhood. Now though the sun was setting and the citadel grew quiet. All sound absent but for the faint echo of footsteps filled the great halls.

Aragorn stood by the hearth, his eyes watching as the fire slowly died. He had arranged for his guests to leave on the morrow at first light. With them he would send what provisions Minas Tirith could part with. There was a part of him that wished to ride away with them. He counted Éomer as a brother, and it pained him to refuse his invitation. Yet there was much that must be done before he could take any such excursion.

The creaking of the door pulled his thoughts away from his desires and to the man who stood just inside the room.

“My Lord?” Faramir watched his king in the dying firelight. Even stripped of his royal attire Aragorn struck an impressive figure. He felt a momentary pang at the memory of another man standing at the hearth, his greying hair turned gold by the firelight. Many times Faramir had waited with Boromir at his side for their father to acknowledge them.

His father had been the kind of man who people waited on, but never waited on others. He would stand before the fire, his eyes cast into the flames while his mind was elsewhere. They would at times be standing at the door for almost an hour before their father would look up, casting a faint smile at Boromir. He would speak then, in that slow and deliberate way he had. Even though his father had more love for his brother, Faramir missed him greatly.

“Come in, Faramir.” Aragorn pulled away from the fire, a gentle smile playing about his lips. The man before him looked much like his brother, but the two could not have been more different. Boromir had been an honorable man the same as Faramir, but he had been a warrior. Boromir had been raised to rule in his father’s place, and as such had been carved with sharp edges. Faramir on the other hand was more gentle than his brother, softer spoken and with a lighter touch.

“I had no desire to disturb you, but I have only just returned.” Faramir closed the door before stepping more fully into the room. The study already had taken on the characteristics of the king, filled with small personal items that spoke of his long life. Faramir smiled when he noticed a long-stemmed pipe rested atop the desk, there was no mistaking the Hobbit craftsmanship and he wondered which of the Halflings had bestowed it upon him.

“You are hardly disturbing me.” Aragorn laughed quietly. Many within the citadel worried about offending him, and he knew it would take some time before he would be able to break them of that. “Have you anything to report?”

“Nothing unexpected. Several of the remaining orcs have been found stealing cattle and raiding granaries. We have slain all we have found.” Thankfully no reports of death had been made. Faramir attributed this to the orcs’ fear of death. Without their great numbers or their master’s protection they were vulnerable. It was a position that would make anyone cautious.

“I suspect we will have problems with them for some time yet.” Aragorn sighed, their numbers had just been too great to wipe out every single one after the battles. So many of them had fled after the war, and they only had so many men to spare.

“Aye, but I would be more concerned if not so many had been killed in the war. Still, the foul creatures breed like flies.” Faramir felt a shiver rush up his spine. He had little desire to think on the breeding practices of orcs, but he knew there had to be females and children.

“They do, but they no longer have the shadow of Sauron to shield them.” And for that Aragorn was thankful. He had no illusions that their world would remain peaceful forever. There would always be others who would rise to claim the title of Dark Lord, but now was not the time to think on such things. “Come now, it is late and I hear you will be joining your cousins tomorrow. Have a drink with me before you go.”

Aragorn poured two glasses of wine, the sweet scent filling the air about him. He handed one to Faramir, taking a small sip of his own. He hummed at the taste of the spices it had been infused with. So often he had drank nothing but ale, saving wine such as this for special occasions. Now though his staff had ensured him that the cellar contained wine enough to daily consumption.

“How were my cousins? I have not had the chance to greet them.” It had been some time since Faramir had seen his cousins beyond Elphir. The darkening times had not afforded him much time for such visits. Now he longed for the company of family.

“Well and merry, I would say. Though…” Aragorn set his glass down, a single finger running around the rim.

“My Lord?” Faramir watched as a look of confusion washed over the King’s face. Surely his cousins hadn’t done something to offend.

“I do not claim to know a great deal about the traditions of Dol Amroth, but I was unaware that their women normally hunted.” It wasn’t that he thought it a strange thing for a woman to engage in such activities. He had knew of several clans of people where the women carried swords alongside their men, as well as hunted for game. But knowing what he did of Gondor he found it strange that one of their women would wish to participate.

Faramir choked, very nearly spraying a fine mist of his wine over his king. “The reason for that would be that they do not. No Gondorian woman would even contemplate such a thing. What makes you say that?”

“Your cousin, Princess Lothíriel was within the party.” He smiled when he thought of the well spoken young woman. She had been everything that her father had said and more. She was polite but headstrong, and had a mind for politics. He had spent a very pleasant evening discussing solutions for the displacement of the Gondorian common-folk. He had half the mind to ask her to remain in Minas Tirith as part of his council. He was sure she would stir things up among the other members.

“Loth? I’m… she had always been a bit unconventional, she had to be in her position, but I would not have thought she would wish to join a hunt.” Maybe unconventional was bit of an understatement. Lothíriel had lost her mother at a young age and took on the job as woman of the house. Faramir had always thought she was a bit of a contradiction, both soft and lady-like and yet firm and unyielding.

“I had not thought so. I had not mentioned anything, but I wonder at what their father had written them. Not once had any of them mentioned the hunt, only making comments on the festival in Rohan.” It had seemed strange to him at the time how the three siblings had spoken of the hunt as a festival. Sure, Aragorn knew that the Hunt would be bracketed by feasts, but by no means could the celebration be considered a festival.

“What purpose would Prince Imrahil have to deceive his children?” Faramir shook his head. He knew his uncle, and he knew the man was no the deceitful kind. He was a very straight forward man, in both his duties as well as his family life.

“What purpose indeed.” Aragorn merely raised a brow before continuing one. “Perhaps I am wrong, but... The prince spoke highly of the Princess while we were in Cormallen, singing her praises to both Éomer and myself.”

“You think he means to make a match?” That at least made a little sense. Lothíriel was of age, more than really. Many of the ladies his cousin had grown up with were all married already.

“It is possible. Politically speaking it would be advantageous.” It was a match he knew his own advisers would have sought for himself had he not already been spoken for. As well as one he knew Éomer’s advisers would be keen to make.

“I can not see my uncle acting thus. He would never force his daughter into a political marriage, he adores Lothíriel.” Faramir knew that many offers had been made for Lothíriel’s hand over the years, though his uncle had turned each one down. He wasn’t sure if Imrahil knew how close his father had been to ordering Lothíriel to marry.

“Maybe it is not a political marriage he is after.” Having met the Princess, he knew it would take very little for a man to fall for her.

“Hopefully not, I would not wish to see my cousin unhappy.”

* * *

 

The skies of Minas Tirith were lighter at night than Dol Amroth, it was something that Lothíriel had noticed when she had been a child visiting the great city. Her father had told her it was due to the many lanterns that burned brightly throughout the city, but in her youth she had been sure that the skies were just darker back home because of lingering elven magic. Looking out over the city now, she wished for those pitch nights back along the sea. There she would not be able to see the destruction.

She imagined that she could hear the screams of men and the clang of swords around her, the sound forever imprinted on the wind. How many years would it echo in the fields and the city? How many nights would be disturbed by the restless dead, hollering out their pain? Would they continue to flutter about until the battle was little more than some distant memory, a long ancient tale grown dull through the years?

A soft knock at her door brought Lothíriel from her dark thoughts, something she was grateful for. She bid her visitor enter, turning from the window as she did so. A smile spread quickly across her face as her cousin entered.

“Faramir! I had not realized you had returned!” Lothíriel held herself from jumping into her cousin’s arms, but she still held on tightly when he gathered her in his arms. She had not seen him since before the war, then he had visited with Boromir, the both of them teasing her relentlessly regarding her archery.

“Then we are even, for I had no knowledge of your visit.” Faramir pulled back from his young cousin. She had grown in the short two years since he had last seen her. He had expected the little girl he used to chase around, instead he found himself facing a grown woman. It was disconcerting.

“I was sure you would have known, with your betrothed being our host’s sister.” Surely the Lady Éowyn would have invited her husband-to-be. Lothíriel looked up at Faramir and wondered at the strange look on his face. Though he quickly smoothed it away with a smile.

“That I do. In fact I shall be accompanying your party in the morning.” Settling down into a chair, Faramir kept his eyes on Lothíriel. Perhaps Aragorn had been correct, she had grown to be a fine young woman. One that would tempt many a man.

“That is great news. I am sure you are eager to see your betrothed again.” Lothíriel plopped down in the chair beside Faramir, her legs curling up under her. She had always gotten along with her cousins, but where Boromir made her want to act like an adult, Faramir always brought out the child in her. She remembered when he would visit when she was smaller, and she would curl up in his lap in the evenings as he told her stories. Sitting before the fire with him now she felt like that small child begging for a tale.

“Aye, this winter shall be the longest I have yet endured. We are already pushing the bounds of propriety with such a short engagement. Even so, I would marry my Éowyn when we arrive in Edoras if I could.” He would have married her in the Houses of Healing had she agreed, but there were some things he knew restraint was needed.

“Tell me of her, Cousin. Elphir has spoken often of her brother, the King, but not much has been said of the Lady Éowyn beyond her beauty.” And that she had heard much of from their knights. The men seemed enamored of her, much the same as her cousin was.

“She is as fair a lady as I have ever met or seen, but you would wish to hear of more than that. She is deep, like the sea that surrounds Dol Amroth. She is unlike the Gondorian ladies who powder their faces lilac and speak of polite things like the weather.” Faramir laughed quietly thinking about Éowyn acting in such a way. “She is a Shieldmaiden of Rohan, and as such she can wield a sword as well as any man. I am sure tale of her great deeds have reached your ears already.”

“Slayer of the Witch-King… we are forever in her debt, as we are to Rohan.” The tale of the Slayer had become a popular one in the halls of Dol Amroth. Lothíriel had listened as the servants related the story late at night. Lady Éowyn didn’t know it, but she had become the hero for many a young girl.

“Not that you will hear any of them speak of it. My Lady writes to me of the devastation Rohan has seen. Farms have been burned to the ground, their grain scattered through the winds. This winter shall be hard for them with so little to feed them, and yet King Éomer has made no request of our King Elessar.” It might seem folly to some, but Faramir perhaps knew the Rohirrim better than them. They were a proud people, and would ask for no help as long as there was way to provide themselves.

“Does the King know of this?” Lothíriel thought back to the conversation at evening meal. They had spoken of the displaced common-folk, the war orphans, and the various solutions that both Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth could put in place. But not once had the king spoken of Rohan.

“Aye, and he has made ready carts filled with grain, wine, cheese, and bread. They shall follow us tomorrow.” He had made a few of his own contributions, though small they might be.

“Father should have written to us of it, I could have had several carts ready as well. We did not escape the war, but maybe we faired better.” Lothíriel stood and went to the small desk beneath the window, pulling out a sheet of paper. “I shall have a letter sent before we leave tomorrow instructing that carts filled with preserved fruits, honey, and dried, salted fish be sent on their way to Rohan.”

Faramir watched his cousin sit before the desk, her hand moving swiftly across the paper. A soft smile spread across his face. “You have grown.”

“What did you expect me to do? Time can’t hold still just so I may stay a child.” She looked over her shoulder, shaking her head at the silly expression on his face.

“True, but that you had to grow up in a war…” Faramir sighed, though he hadn’t spoken to her brothers, he had some idea of what she had been tasked to do during the war.

“Please, Faramir, I have had enough pity to last me a life time. Can we speak of your wedding and leave the war and its shadow behind?” Placing the quill down, Lothíriel went to sit back in her chair. The letter could wait until the morning.

“As you wish, Lothíriel.”

* * *

 

Imrahil spooned another mouthful of soup to his mouth, the slightly tangy cream washing over his tongue. It was unlike anything served in Dol Amroth; thick with fresh cream and filled with roasted chicken. The dish had a slight yellow tint to it, the color he was told was attributed to the type of mustard that grew in Rohan. He knew that many in Gondor would find the meal lacking, it being a simple soup and bread. Peasant food most would say, the more tactful would call it rustic. Still, Imrahil enjoyed it. Just as he enjoyed his stay in Edoras.

He had been meant to return not long after King Elessar, but the joys of Rohan and his friendship with its king had changed his plans. He knew after the Hunt he would have to return home, preparations for winter would also have to be made in Dol Amroth. Until then, Imrahil planned to enjoy his time there.

“Is the meal to your liking?” Éowyn tore a piece of bread from the loaf, dropping small bits of it into her soup like she had as a child. She knew the food was nothing like the Prince was used to, but with so little in the larder there wasn’t the ingredients for a fine feast.

“Aye, my Lady. I thank you, and commend you on the choice.” Imrahil lifted a spoonful into the air before downing it.

“There was not much I could chose from, so much of our stores have been depleted.” Éowyn hung her head, her eyes set on the slowly soaking pieces of bread.

“And still you have chosen a meal for a king… and I must say a prince as well.” Putting his spoon down, Imrahil reached over to take Éowyn’s hand in his own. He gave her a smile when she looked up, winking at the slight blush that rose in her cheeks. It was flattering that he could still provoke a reaction at that age.

“Thank you.” Éowyn took a drink of her ale to hide the redness in her cheeks while ignoring the soft laugh from her brother.

“Wait until the feasts, I have snuck a peek at the menu my sister has planned.” Éomer dunked a piece of bread in the soup, stuffing the soaked bit into his mouth. Mustard soup had always been one of his favorites.

“It will be nothing like the fests of our childhood.” Éowyn shook her head before glaring at Éomer as his words sunk in. “And you should not be looking through my things, dear Brother.”

“Frightened that I might come upon a letter from your betrothed? Surely there has been no impropriety?” In his mind Éowyn and Faramir had a polite courtship, and would have a polite marriage filled with hand holding and shy smiles. He really didn’t want to think of it any other way, he was happy to live in denial for the rest of his life.

“Don’t tease your sister so, propriety has little place in love.” Imrahil laughed at the green look that overcame his friend. He remembered when he had been young, he had had little care for the conventions of the court. The letters to his wife had been explicit, and perhaps rash, though she had not complained at the time.

“It is useless to lecture him on such things.” Sometimes she thought that if her brother had his way she would spend her whole marriage apart from her husband. She dared not tell him what she had been up to with Faramir before he had returned to Minas Tirith.

“Surely he understands.” Imrahil blinked at his friend. “Don’t tell me that you remain polite with your lady when in private?”

“To be anything but polite would require him to have a lady.” She had meant for her words to be jesting, but they came out solemn. She wished the type of happiness she had on her brother.

“Now I find that surprising.” Surprising, and yet heartening.

“I have been afforded little time for courting or the more delicate things.” There had been a few women when he had been in Aldburg, but widows and farmer’s daughters did not make appropriate wives for kings. “And we are not talking about me.”

“And we certainly are not talking about me. So it would be best to let the whole thing drop and enjoy our meal.” The words were harsher than Éowyn had intended, but she blamed it on the fact that she was tired.

“Hear, hear! I, for one, know a better way to employ my tongue.” Imrahil raised another spoonful of soup in a salute, quickly draining it into his mouth. Perhaps the issue of the King’s personal life was a matter to be left alone when in company.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, sorry that took awhile to get out. I’ve been really busy, and stressed lately. (Had to give my first…and last…public speech in front of a couple hundred people on Thursday, and I was kind of freaking out.) Hopefully chapter 3 won’t take me so long.  
> Next chapter Lothíriel and Éomer meet!  
> Also to the Anon who reviewed, Thankies Sugar for the comment!
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


	4. First Impressions

  
Lothíriel held onto her reins loosely, allowing her horse to follow along with the others. They had been on the road for several days, her carriage and the main party riding ahead of the supply carts in order to make time. It was something she was glad for. This was the longest she had ever traveled by horse or carriage, and she was growing weary.

Amrothos looked over from his place beside her, his eyes rolling at the proud tilt of her chin. She had fought rather hard to earn her right to ride on horseback. Many of the men that had joined them spouted off nonsense about propriety and not disgracing her father. Even Gwaedhil had protested, it was no surprise then when she refused a mount of her own.

What many forgot, was that Lothíriel was as much a politician as her father. While they were within the boundaries of Gondor the use of the carriage was needed for keeping up appearances. Rohan was another matter altogether. The Rohirrim were a horse people, and Lothíriel was sure that their women did not allow themselves to be carted around. For this reason she had decided that she would arrive in Edoras seated upon a horse.

“There is no need to look so proud, Sister.” Amrothos laughed quietly at the straight set to his sister’s shoulders. She had always been very headstrong, something he was sure came from their mother. Though unlike the Swan Knights traveling with them, he found no fault with it.

“It might be a small victory, but it is a victory nonetheless. Just because the war is over does not mean that my authority does not hold weight. I refuse to return to that helpless girl everyone saw me as.” Lothíriel looked to her brother, her lips pressed in a tight line. She knew her father and brothers did not see her that way, but many others did. It was the curse of womanhood, forever believed to be weak and helpless, and in need of protection.

“After your deeds during the war only a fool would see you thus.” Amrothos reached over, giving Lothíriel’s hand a quick squeeze. Sadly, he knew there would be many fools, but that was just the way of the world.

“I hope you are right.” With a sigh, Lothíriel turned from her brother. She had no wish to discuss such matters, not when she had been in bright spirits all morning. Ignoring any entreaty to speak with her, she took in the world around her.

They had passed the borders of Rohan some time ago, and Lothíriel was intrigued by what she saw. As they rode along the great grass plains she watched as the autumn-gold grass danced in the wind. Every now and then the passing of their horses would stir up some animal, sending them dashing off this way and that. Several times she had watched as flocks of birds flew along the plains, bobbing up and down in rhythm with the grasses. She found it all beautiful.

A shout from the front of the procession brought her from her musings and she looked up to where Faramir had been riding alongside Erchirion. His face was alight with a smile that spread across his face. He was practically bouncing in his saddle, and Lothíriel thought he looked much like a child in that moment.

“Welcome to Edoras.” Faramir flung his arms wide, enjoying the look of wonder on his cousins’ faces. He knew well the feeling of seeing the Golden Hall alight in the sun for the first time. He had not been long from the beautiful city, but still he had missed it. Perhaps due in part to Rohan’s White Lady, but also simply for the wonder of the land as well.

Lothíriel looked out over the hilled city and its hall capped in sunlit flames, and she thought to herself that she had never seen anything more magnificent in her life. For the first time since receiving her father’s letter she was excited and glad she had gone.

* * *

 

The wind rushed around the welcoming party on the steps of Meduseld. The wind was the harshest this time of year, when the warm weather of summer was being pushed out by the chill air. Éomer ignored it as it whipped his hair around his face, but he could see the annoyed look on Imrahil’s face. He was sure Dol Amroth had its fair share of wind, but nothing could beat the gales of the Mark.

Éowyn practically bounced in place beside her brother, the traditional cup of mead held tightly in her hands. The Gondorian party had already entered the gates and could be seen steadily making their way towards the hall. All around them the people of Edoras stood waiting, their delighted chatter filling the city with a steady hum.

Éomer watched the assent of their guests, his eyes immediately landing on an ornate carriage. He had seen a couple such contraptions in Minas Tirith and had been informed that the ladies of the court preferred to use them to travel over horseback. It had seemed strange to him, coming from a land where men and women alike rode in the saddle. Even now it seemed out of place, and Éomer wondered at its presence. He had been so focused on the carriage that he hadn’t seen Imrahil move from beside him until he heard a commotion below.

He blinked when he noticed his friend embracing a young man, clearly the older man’s son. Éomer had only met Elphir before, but there was no mistaking the two men at Imrahil’s side as anything other than the Princes of Dol Amroth. So alike were they in color and height, though his friend wore a maturity about him that his sons had yet to acquire. His gaze slipped over the three men to the rider still mounted behind the princes.

Éomer’s breath caught in his throat as he beheld the young rider. A woman sat upon the pale horse, poised as any elf he had ever met. Everything about her screamed that she was well bred, a true lady of Gondor. Yet there was a gentleness about her, it was in the way she ran her hand down the horse’s neck and in the sweet smile she bestowed upon the three princes. So intent was he that he jolted when Éowyn placed a hand on his arm.

“I might not be familiar with the ladies of Gondor, but I am sure they do not like being stared at like a hare before a fox.” Éowyn laughed at the pink that quickly rose up her brother’s neck. It had been some time since she had been able to embarrass him, and she had to admit that she enjoyed it.

“I was simply surprised to see a lady amongst them.” Éomer huffed when Éowyn just rolled her eyes and gave him a pat on the shoulder. He composed himself, watching as the princes and the lady alighted the stairs.

One by one Éowyn presented their guests with the mead, speaking the traditional words of welcome. The people in the streets were quiet, their eyes all wide in wonder. For years the Mark had seen little in the way of visitors, but now the streets of Edoras would be hosting yet another foreign party.

Éomer waited until his sister had greeted the last of the royal guests to approach his friend. He smiled at Imrahil, giving a short bow to his guests.   
  
“King Éomer, I am honored to introduce you to my sons, Erchirion and Amrothos…” Imrahil motioned for both princes to step forward. He practically beamed as his son’s bowed to his friend, and grasped a hold of the young lady’s hand. “And my daughter, Princess Lothíriel.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my Lady, welcome to Edoras.” Éomer stumbled over himself as he tried to bow, his feet refusing to stay out of each other’s way. He felt like a newborn colt, stumbling around on thin legs. To cover his blunder he took the Princess’s hand, placing a light kiss upon it.

“Thank you, my Lord King. And it is a pleasure to meet you, I have heard much of you from my brother and our men.” Lothíriel pulled her hand back to her side, her skin tingling where the king had kissed it. She was surprised at how young the king was. For some reason she had thought as he was her father’s friend he would be his age, but the king had to be as young as her brothers.

“All good things I hope.” Recovered, Éomer offered his arm to the Princess. A wide smile spread across his lips as her hand slipped over his arm. With a nod to his sister he led the party inside.

“If one considers being likened to the height of a troll flattering.” Lothíriel bit her lips to keep herself from laughing at the shocked expression on the King’s face, though a bit escaped when he smiled. She thought about what Elphir had said, and she could very well understand their Knights. King Éomer was a large man, matching in height to their own king. The bright smile on his face softened him, but she was sure he was a nightmare on the battlefield. The though sent shivers up her spine.

“Hmm, a short troll perhaps.” Éomer laughed, sure where the Princess had heard such a thing. His laughing quieted as they passed the Hall’s doors, leading the young woman further inside. “Now, you must be weary from your travels. No doubt you would wish for some rest. There will be a feast tonight to properly welcome you.”

Éowyn followed along behind with Faramir, the two sharing an amused smile as they could still hear Éomer rambling away inside the hall.

* * *

 

Lothíriel smiled as Gwaedhil rushed about the room like a harried hen clucking about. The woman had been frantically searching through the trunks of clothes looking for the perfect dress for the night’s activities. Once one would be pulled out and approved by Lothíriel, the handmaiden would end up shaking her head and tossing it away for some reason or other.

“That one was perfectly fine.” Lothíriel watched one of her favorite dresses fly across the room to land on a chair. It had been the one Íril had gifted her on her last birthday.

“The color was all wrong. Maybe for a garden party, but it would look wrong in the firelight.” Gwaedhil shook her head and dove right back into the trunk. Most of the dresses they had packed were suited more for festivals than grand feasts. She had just known she should have brought the midnight velvet one, it was a dress fit for a queen. Only Lothíriel had insisted that there would be no occasion to wear such a dress.

“It was blue, as most of my dresses are.” Lothíriel could feel a headache coming on. Whenever the other woman got in this kind of mood she always ended up with a headache.

“The wrong blue.” Gwaedhil looked over her shoulder at her charge. Had the woman eyes?

Sighing, Lothíriel opened the trunk at the end of her bed. She shifted a few gowns until her fingers closed around a familiar bit of linen. She lifted up the dress alongside its velvet cincher, the fabric falling in blue pools at her feet. “How about this one? It was always a favorite back home.”

“I’m not sure…” Gwaedhil sighed when loud knocking came at the door, there was no mistaking who was making such a racket.

“Come in.” Still holding the dress up for her handmaiden’s appraisal, Lothíriel thought nothing of the door opening behind her. She figured it to be the housemaid with water for her bath. She was surprised then when her brothers came into view, both still as dirty as they had been when they arrived.

“Shocked sister? You better watch it or we might think you don’t want to see us.” Amrothos pouted as he tossed away several dresses from a chair and flung himself down in it.

“At this moment I would rather not. Should not you be readying for the feast?” Her brothers looked like they had been rolling around in the stables like they used to when they were children. If not for the fact that she knew their father would never allow it, she would have thought they had done just that.

“There is not much for us to do. A quick wash and change of clothes really.” Erchirion shrugged his shoulders and leaned back against the wall by the hearth. Elphir had always been the one to take the longest in dressing. He said it was because he had to look proper as Father’s heir, but Erchirion had never believed him.

“Though perhaps you have the right of it. If I intend to find me a Rohirric maid I will have to up the ante with all these horse warriors around.” Amrothos rubbed his chin. “I’m thinking about growing a beard. I think I would look rather dashing with one.”

“Rothos, besides the fact that it takes more than a couple of hours to grow one, you know it is impossible.” Lothíriel remembered when she had been really young, Elphir had taken it into his head that he would grow a beard. Her poor brother, he had tried all manner of “potions” to coax the hair from his chin. In the end all he ended up with was a rash and a scolding from Father.

“Damnable elf blood.” Not that Amrothos really hated his lineage, but sometimes it did have its disadvantages.

“Even if you could, you would look more like a wooly goat than anything.” Erchirion laughed as he dodged his brothers fist.

“I take offence to that.” Realizing that he would have to stand up to punch Rion, he picked up one of Lothíriel’s shoes from the floor and lobbed it at him.

“You take offence to everything.” Erchirion batted the shoe away, Rothos had always been a bad shot at short distances.

“As entertaining as this is, is there a reason you are here besides annoying me?” Lothíriel was close to beating the both of them with her shoes. It shouldn’t have surprised her, they were always doing something to annoy or vex her. When they had been children they had once stolen all her dresses the night of a ball, she had been forced to fashion a gown using a cloak and a tapestry from her wall. Their parents had not been amused.

“We have been in ‘conference’ with Father.” Erchirion shook his head just remembering the conversation they had just had. What Father was thinking he wasn’t sure.

“That is nice. Has he enlightened us to what the festivities are to be?” Tired of waiting on Gweadhil’s opinion, Lothíriel set the dress down and went in search of the matching shoes.

“As a matter of fact he has. It seems that the King has decided to revive an old tradition here in Rohan.” Amrothos settled more fully back in his chair, waiting for his sister to turn back towards them.

“And…” The longer her brothers were in her room the more she wanted to hit them. Could they not get to the point quickly?

“He calls it The Great Hunt. It appears that we have been sent for a hunting trip that will last a couple of weeks.” Amrothos watched the confusion wash over his sister’s face. He was sure it was the same that had come over his when their father had told them the same thing.

“Hunting? That… well that was unexpected.” More than unexpected actually. Lothíriel sat down on the bed beside her dress, her fingers idly playing with the fabric. “Why had he not mentioned it in his letter?”

“He didn’t say. Though I am inclined to believe that he worried you wouldn’t come if you knew the true reason for the visit.” At least that was what Erchirion and him thought. They had asked several times, but Father always changed the subject.

“You have always been his favorite, it is not surprising that he would want to see you before he is able to return home.” Erchirion knew that their father didn’t play favorites, but everyone could see how he adored his daughter.

“Maybe so, but it still would have been nice if I could have prepared.” She had brought nothing to pass the time. Believing there to be a festival, she had left her stitching and books at home. Now she wondered if Lady Éowyn would know of something to entertain her.

Another knock on their door interrupted the conversation, this time the visitor actually being the maid. Lothíriel bid the young woman in and directing her through a path she had cleared of dresses.

“We shall leave you to it then.” Erchirion pushed off the wall and headed for the door. His sister had been right, they probably should be readying for the evening.

“And by the way, that is the dress.” Amrothos pointed to the dress she had picked out before following Rion.

Lothíriel had expected her handmaiden to make some comment about the dress, instead she began to rummage through the trunks again even more frantically than before.

“What are you doing? If we take any more time finding the right dress I will be late.” Lothíriel felt like ripping her hair out, and it didn’t help when she tripped over one of her dresses. She loved Gwaedhil like an older sister, but sometimes the woman was just too much.

“Your brother is right, that dress is perfect. But we brought nothing suitable for a hunting trip!” Gwaedhil dug through the trunk, hoping to find something she could alter.

“Do not be silly, Gwaedhil. Surely King Éomer would never allow a woman to join the hunt. Most likely we shall remain in Edoras until the party returns.” Perhaps Lady Éowyn could provide her with some cloth and thread, or maybe a book. “Now, I really must get ready.”

* * *

 

“Make sure the Princess has everything she needs.” Éomer waved off several maids in the direction of the Princess’s rooms.

Éowyn bit her lip in order to keep from laughing. Ever since the Princess had been shown to her room he had been giving orders left and right; “Have fresh water boiled for the Princess’s bath… see if the apothecary has any floral oils… gather pelts for the Princess’s bed… make sure there is enough wood for her hearth…” and on and on. It was rather entertaining seeing her brother so out of sorts. She shook her head when she heard him muttering about not having a proper room ready.

“You can hardly be faulted considering that you had not known she would be coming.” No one had thought to expect the Prince’s daughter, not for a hunting trip. She doubted Imrahil blamed her brother for being unprepared, and even if he did it had been his fault in the first place for not telling them.

“That is beside the point.” Éomer turned away from his sister and searched the shelves in his study. Imrahil had spoken often of his daughter, and he knew she loved to read. Of course few books existed in the Mark, having no actual written language. Thankfully, because of their grandmother the Golden Hall boasted a nice collection. Though he was sure nothing like what she had access to back in Dol Amroth.

“No, it is not. Though what is, is the matter of the Hunt.” Sometimes she felt as though she could hit her brother. So often he took the blame for something that was not his fault. She knew he blamed himself for both their uncle and cousin’s deaths. Éowyn had hoped that this hunt would take his mind off of it, only now it seemed to add another thing to his guilt list.

“The Hunt? What does that have to do with anything?” Éomer turned to look at Éowyn, a book in his hand. Surely the Princess hadn’t mentioned a loathing for hunting. He had heard that Gondorian ladies could be more sensitive to the subject of death than their own women. Had she been insulted by being invited for a hunt?

“As she has accompanied her brothers, Princess Lothíriel surely plans on joining you.” Not that Éowyn was sure about that. Still, she was Imrahil’s daughter, and if she was anything like him she wouldn’t be surprised if she planed to join.

“I…”

“You better not say anything of her staying in Edoras. It would be insulting, after her coming all this way.” Seriously, that would be all they needed, her brother sticking his foot in his mouth. Imrahil would forgive them of course, but still it was best not to risk it.

“But…”

“Not mentioning that her father is your friend, but Dol Amroth is an ally and insulting their princess doesn’t seem like the proper way to start off your rule.” Even if Imrahil forgave them, word could get back to their people…

“Could I get in a word, or are you going to guilt me for a bit longer?” Éomer slammed the book down on the table. Sometimes Éowyn could be so much like their mother. He remembered many times when he was young listening to their parents at night. Their mother would go on and on, never allowing their father to speak.

“I…”

“Look, I never said that I would force her to stay behind. It isn’t unheard of for a woman to join the Hunt, I only had reservations about the Princess. This doesn’t seem like the sort of thing that Gondorian ladies do.” Éomer tried to picture the ladies he had met in Minas Tirith shooting deer on horseback, and found he couldn’t. “Then again she has joined her brothers.”

“Good, then it is agreed.” Éowyn gave a sharp nod and promptly left.

Éomer shook his head with a laugh. “I’m not sure if Faramir understands what he is getting himself into.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So enter Éomer. Not the biggest chapter, but I decided to split the meeting and the feast up. Next chapter: some dancing, talking with Éowyn, and off to the hunt! I’m going to try to update by next Saturday, but don’t hold me to it as sometimes things happen.


	5. Teas and Tunics

 

Lothíriel sighed as Gwaedhil finished tying off the laces on her gown. It had taken her longer than she had planned to ready herself for the feast, but her handmaiden had insisted upon pinning up her hair. She smoothed down her hands along the cincher binding her ribs. The dress was a style she doubted many in Rohan wore, meant more for the Court than working fields. It had been a gift from Íril for her last birthday. The large jeweled pendant she wore with it had caused her brothers to dub it the dragonfly dress.

Bidding Gwaedhil good-evening, Lothíriel slipped from her room to make her way towards the Great Hall. There was no need of a guide, Rohan’s musicians had already begun and she followed the sound. Listening to the lively music, Lothíriel wondered at the difference between Rohan and Dol Amroth.

Back home the music for such a function would have been more sedate. Not to say that her people were boring, but life there focused around the sea most of the time. She had grown up surrounded by songs depicting the great waters, and the legends of the elves. Though even in Dol Amroth there was a difference between the nobility and commoners. The songs of the Court were gentle in both verse and sound, while the bawdy sea shanties were kept to the taverns and ports.

Lothíriel laughed, she had learned a fair few of the more raunchy songs from her brothers. They had little control over their voices when they returned home drunk. How the Court would be scandalized to know that their princess knew all the words to songs about drunken sailors and frisky sea maidens.

Turning off the corridor, Lothíriel found herself in the Hall as well as in a sea of red and gold. A great deal of the crowd twirled about as they danced to the lively music, laughing and singing with one another. Amid the crowd she could just make out a few dark heads, no doubt her father and brothers. She quickly made her way towards them, her eyes landing on King Éomer who had been speaking with her father.

“Loth! We were beginning to wonder if you had drown in that bath of yours.” Amrothos slung an arm around his sister’s shoulders, pulling her in close.

Lothíriel shook her head at her brother, it seemed as though he had already started in on the ale. She steadied herself against Rothos’ side, greeting her father with a slight nod and the king with a smile.

“Men have an easier time of it, Rothos, talk to me again when you have to be stitched into a dress.” Loth pinched her brother in the side, laughing when he made a slight squeal.

“Now that is something I would pay to see.” Erchirion dodged when Rothos reached out to punch him, not that his brother was in any state to retaliate, between the ale and their sister on his arm.

“Children, now is not the time.” Imrahil laughed despite his words, he knew the Rohirrim would be little insulted by his children’s behavior.

“Let them have their fun, my Friend. Tonight is for dancing and laughter.” Éomer winked at his friend, lifting his mug of ale as he turned to the youngest prince. “And should Amrothos care, I am sure my sister could easily find a dress that would fit him.”

“Don’t encourage them, my Lord, or you will have a prince running about in lady’s attire.” Knowing his sons, Imrahil didn’t think it would be a wise idea to tease them so. All three of his sons had once ran through the kitchens stark naked just because they had been told that they wouldn’t dare. To this day their head cook couldn’t look any of them in the eyes.

“It would not be the first time.” Éomer laughed at the memory of Théodred swanning about the Hall in a dress. It seemed like a lifetime ago, back before the darkness took hold. Back when laughter still filled all the halls of Rohan.

“That sounds like a story worth hearing.” Lothíriel pulled away from her brother’s arms, ducking when a bit of ale splashed from his mug.

“Perhaps later this evening it will be one I will tell, but first we should officially start the festivities. My Lady…” Éomer offered his arm to the princess, and smiled down at her as she curled her hand along his elbow. With a nod he lead her to the dais that held the throne, her father and brothers behind them.

The hall went silent as the royal party faced them, Lothíriel still on King Éomer’s arm. She had known that words would be spoken in honor of those that were lost and of the coming days, but she had not counted on being front and center for it. The King spoke in a strange mixture of Rohirric and common tongue, and Lothíriel spent most of her time watching him.

There was a power in King Éomer, it was not in his sword hand or his stance, but in the way he commanded attention from his people. He stood before them, not as a dictator, but as a father guiding his children. It was the same way her father ruled their people. Lothíriel’s own attention was brought back to the world around her as King Éomer gently pulled on her arm and guided her towards a table.

Éomer seated the Princess at his side, quietly explaining the dishes as they passed by. For awhile the conversation remained nothing more than a quiet buzz as everyone began to heartily eat. Éowyn and the kitchen staff had outdone themselves considering what they had to work with. It wasn’t until the second course of meats began to make their rounds that anyone spoke of anything other than the need for more ale.

“Will the hunt take place near the city?” Erchirion tore off a bit of bread and used it to sop up the juices on his plate. The rustic fare was strange to his palate, as he was used to dishes filled with butter soaked fish and sweet wines, but he could not deny the greased meats and heavy breads tasted good.

“Not near enough for us to bed here. Normally the hunting parties would be scattered across the Mark, but with orc attacks still a worry we will only be traveling a couple of days away.” Éomer knew it would be years before the Hunt returned to its former glory, the world was still too dangerous.

“You said that this was an old tradition of Rohan.” Lothíriel sipped delicately on the cup of ale she had been provided. She had tasted the ales of Gondor, but they now seemed weak in comparison. Rohan’s ale was much like its people, hearty and vibrant.

“Aye, as old as our people. Eorl had hosted the first Great Hunt in order to provide for his people. The crops that year had suffered from drought, and many of the livestock died because of the heat. He worried that they would be unable to survive the winter.” Éomer shifted himself until he could face the princess beside him better. With the new angle he could see the slow rise of pink along her cheeks, the cause most likely the Hall’s fires and her ale. “When the hunters returned home they brought with them twice the amount of game needed to feed all of the Mark. It was believed that the hunt had been blessed, and from that time on our people have continued the tradition.”

Noticing how the princess slowly sipped at her ale, Éomer motioned to one of the serving maids to bring forth the barley water that many of the ladies favored. It was a drink his mother used to give him as a child, sweet and thick, and just as filling as ale.

“But you said that there hadn’t been a hunt in nearly twenty years.” Erchirion shook his head as a maid offered him honeyed cakes, his stomach already full to bursting.

“My uncle had not joined in the Hunt since his wife had died, and when my mother…” Éomer clamped his mouth shut and swallowed thickly. It had been many years since the loss of his parents, but he still felt the sting of it. “After my mother’s death he could not find it in him to bless the Hunt. One has not been held in the Mark since I was a child.”

“We are proud to be invited to take part in the first hunt of this new age, my Friend.” Imrahil placed a hand on Éomer’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. The man was young, but already Imrahil could see what a fine king he would be.

“And I am proud to have you.” Éomer gave his friend a smile before turning to the princess. “I have instructed my men to pack a separate tent for yourself, and your handmaiden should you choose to bring her along. Is there anything else which you would require?”

Lothíriel just barely kept herself from choking on her drink. She knew things were different in Rohan, but she had never thought it would be this much. Had the king expected her to join the Hunt from the beginning? “No, my Lord, I would not wish to be a burden.”

“You are hardly such. If you think of anything else you might need, please let Éowyn know and she will ensure it is provided.” Éomer nodded to his sister further down the table, enjoying her time with her betrothed. Though tradition normally dictated that as King he should ensure his guests were provided for, in this matter he knew it best to defer to his sister.

Lothíriel opened her mouth to speak, closing it again after a moment. She could think of nothing to say beyond a quiet thank you, and before she could do anything else the King’s attention had been once again on her brother.

* * *

 

Lothíriel laughed quietly to herself as she headed back to her room. All evening she had danced, ate and drank, feeling free for the first time in a very long while. But what had raised her spirits the most was watching as her father and brothers laughed freely. It was a sight she hadn’t seen in too long.

Opening the door to her room, Lothíriel found Gwaedhil dozing in a chair by the fire. She shook her head, the older woman fretted over her like a mother hen sometimes. No doubt she had tried to remain awake long enough to help ready her for bed. Trying to be quiet, Lothíriel quickly unrobed only to find herself tripping over the length of her dress.

“My Lady!” Gwaedhil shot up from her chair with a shout, her sleep heavy eyes taking in her charge on the floor.

“I’m sorry Hilly, I was trying not to wake you.” Lothíriel laughed a little as she stood and dusted herself off. At least she hadn’t tripped during the evening.

“I’m the one that must apologize, I hadn’t meant to fall asleep.” Rushing about the room, Gwaedhil worked to ready her lady for bed.

“There is no need for that. I am sure if the servants had as much of a celebration as we had then it is no wonder you are tired.” She smiled at the older woman, fondness filling her.

“I must admit I did enjoy myself. Though there was much ale and dancing, more than at any event in Gondor.” Gwaedhil blushed at the memory of the evening. Those of the household that had no work for the night gathered in the yard beyond the kitchens, singing, dancing, and drinking the night away. She had danced more than she had in years, and one thing was for sure, the Rohirrim didn’t dance anything like those in Court. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed it.

“I’m glad, you deserve to have a bit of fun.” Lothíriel lifted her arms once Gwaedhil motioned for her, allowing the handmaiden to pull the dress over her head. “And the Rohirrim are very much a hardy people. The ale flowed like a river in the hall as well. Poor Rothos will be feeling it tomorrow.”

“And what of the other Princes?” Gwaedhil set the dress aside, busying herself with braiding her lady’s hair.

“Father showed a good deal of restraint, though I had seen him eye one last pint. Rion… well he had little time for drinking, he spent most of the evening dancing.” Lothíriel really wouldn’t be surprised if her brother found himself with a Rohirrim bride before the visit was over. The ladies of the Mark all seemed enamored of her brothers, she had even caught sight of a few eyes on her father.

“And as for yourself, my Lady, did you dance?” Tying off the end of the long braid, Gwaedhil patted Lothíriel on the shoulder to direct her towards the bed. It was much like it had been when the princess had been young, and she wondered if things would ever change.

“Some, I think I enjoyed watching my family more. It almost felt like the old days, before Mother died.” Lothíriel curled up at the head of her bed, her toes poking under the heavy blankets. There were times during the night she could almost hear her mother’s laughter.

“Perhaps with the Shadow lifted there will be more days like that.” Those in the halls of Dol Amroth wished nothing more for their Princes and Princess.

“Perhaps.” Lothíriel pushed her feet fully under the covers and leaned back into the pillows with a large yawn. “As it turns out, I am expected to join the hunt.”

“Goodness! Your father wishes you to join them?” Gwaedhil could hardly imagine the Prince expecting such a thing.

“Nay, it is the King. During the meal he assured me that a separate tent has been readied for my use, and yours if you choose to join.” Lothíriel still couldn’t wrap her head around it, but if he expected her to join then she would. She would not shame her father by refusing the invitation of a king.

“Of course I will be going! Leave you with a group of men alone? Not for all the gold in Middle-earth. I would not be doing my job if I allowed such a thing.” Gwaedhil shook her head, it mattered not that four of her kin would be joining her, it would be improper for her to leave without another woman as escort.

When no reply was made, she looked down to find her charge fast asleep. She huffed a bit, but reached down to pull the blankets over the princess. She blew out the candle and left the room muttering about the strange and barbaric land they found themselves in.

* * *

 

Éowyn watched as the spoonful of honey slowly dissolved into the cup of tea. The tea was much lighter than what she was used to, the tea of the Mark being dark and bitter. Still, she lifted the fine cup to her lips and sipped the watery drink.

“Thank you for inviting me, my Lady, I did not get much of a chance to talk with you last night.” Lothíriel gave a soft blow to the top of her cup, the steam curling out much like the fog over the sea. She had wanted to speak with the Lady the night before, but something always seemed to distract her.

“Understandable, you hadn’t seen your father in some time. Had our places been switched I wouldn’t have had time for others either.” Though if she was being entirely honest, she hadn’t had time for anyone but Faramir. It was something that her brother teased her about upon waking that morning. “And it is you I must thank, taking tea is not a tradition in the Mark. Though I suppose since I will be marrying Faramir I should get into the practice. I imagine that it will be expected of me.”

“There will be much of the Court that will expect invitations for tea, mostly the wives of various Lords. While my cousin conducts business with their husbands it will be your duty to entertain the women. I could tell you that such a thing is voluntary, but I would be a bad cousin if I advised you thus.” This was something that her mother had instructed her on, just as other ladies of the court had been. From an early age she had been expected to entertain the young daughters of Lords as her mother entertained their mothers. It was the way girls were taught, preparing them for the day they took over running their husband’s household. Éowyn, she knew, did not have that advantage.

“I suspect it involves status.” Éowyn set her cup down on the table beside her, it would take her some time before she would get used to such a drink.

“Yes, and no. It is true that the ladies of the Court all tally their points when it comes to invitations, but really it is just as important to your business interests as what Faramir will do. Many deals that have thwarted off war have been made in the tea parlor.” From the outside Lothíriel knew that most saw the teas to be nothing more than a den of gossip hosted by women who had nothing better to do than talk about the latest fashions. It was frustrating, but sadly the way it was.

“Not what I expected from the ladies of Gondor, or the men for that matter.” Éowyn settled more fully into her chair as she allowed this new information to sink in. Growing up she had always heard tales of the elegant woman of Gondor, who never spoke an ill word and wrote the book on propriety.

“It is a closely held secret. The men never speak of it, for they do not realize it. It is probably best that way, Gondorian men have weak prides.” Lothíriel knew some men, like her father, welcomed the advice and help of their wives. But others, such as her late uncle, would never have heard of it.

“It is the curse of the male, no matter what race.” Éowyn smirked as she picked up a small honey cake. For a moment the two just look at each other before bursting out in laughter.

Lothíriel cleared her throat after a moment. “I confess I was glad for the invitation for reasons other than getting to know you.”

“If there is anything that I can help you with, please tell.” Éowyn wanted no walls between her and her new kin. For too long she had allowed herself to be closed off, but no longer. Lothíriel was to be her cousin, and she wanted to know and care for her as Faramir did.

“Hunting is not a sport that Gondorian women participate in.” Lothíriel bit her lip, a habit she was constantly scolded for. “I’m afraid that none of my clothes will be appropriate. I’m sure that none of the men will be wearing dresses and corsets.”

“Dear me, that would be a sight.” Éowyn laughed at the image of her large brother wearing one of her dresses. The thought brought to mind an idea. “Do not worry, I believe that I know of something in which you may wear.”

“Thank you, my Lady.” Relieved, she gave a short bow of the head.

“Please, call me Éowyn, for soon we will be kin.” Éowyn leaned over and gave a short pat to the younger woman’s leg. She gave the princess a quick glance over, and felt a moments regret. She had thought when the Princess arrived she had plans to join the Hunt, and so she gave little thought in encouraging her brother. Now though, she wondered if she had the wrong of it.

“Well then, thank you, Éowyn. And I extend the same courtesy.” Lothíriel took a sip of her cooling tea to cover up her relieved smile. She had heard stories of the Witch King Slayer, and she had been nervous how the woman would welcome her. “Shall you be joining us tomorrow?”

“No, I am to remain behind to have everything ready when the party returns. Most of the meat must be preserved to last the winter.” Thankfully Éowyn had found others willing to help. With the last Hunt so long ago, there was a great deal to be done.

“I suspect that is a wearying job.” Lothíriel knew how tiring something like that could be, having run her father’s house for so many years now. There was always something that went wrong, and it never got any easier.

“Aye, but a necessary one.” Éowyn turned to look at the fire still burning in the hearth, her sword hand tingling. “And truly I have no wish to join. Once I would have done anything to be allowed to follow my brother, but now…”

“Éowyn?”

“I was raised a Shieldmaiden of Rohan, taught to wield a sword and fight like any one of our warriors. Yet when the time came I was expected to stay safe with the women and children.” Without thinking, she began rubbing the hand that had stabbed the Witch King. It had become a habit, one that she knew worried her brother. “When I went off to war, I had not expected to return. I had dreams of a glorious death in battle, and yet I lived and am glad for it. I have seen more death than my share, and I have no wish now to see more no matter what creature it be.”

“I shall miss your companionship, but I do not blame you.” Lothíriel couldn’t imagine what it had been like in battle, to kill and find yourself washed in blood. Regardless that they would have killed you without thought, it had to be a horrid thing.

“Thank you… now let us talk no more of death or war. I am intrigued by the Court, tell me more of what to expect once Faramir and I marry.” Turning away from the fire, Éowyn smiled and took back up her cup of tea.

* * *

 

A chilled breeze rushed through Lothíriel’s window the next morning as she dressed. Éowyn had fulfilled her promise, visiting her rooms after the evening meal the night before with an armful of clothes. Gwaedhil had been scandalized, refusing outright to even think about wearing the garments provided. Lothíriel on the other hand felt a little thrill when looking at the pile of clothes.

She stood now in the middle of her room clothed in breaches and a tunic. It was the first time she had worn anything other than a dress since she was a small child. The fabric was coarser than what she was used to, but she knew the thickly woven wool would be more resistant to dampness than the silk of most of her wardrobe. Despite the slight scratchiness of the garments, she adored them.

Gwaedhil had very different thoughts to the clothing, most of them dealt with the fear of what her father would say about them. Women of Gondor never tread about in breaches, or carried swords, or hunted for that matter.

“My Lady, I am not sure what your father will say about these clothes.” Gwaedhil fiddled with the sleeve of a tunic before folding the offending garment. She understood her Lady couldn’t very well wear her fine gowns, but surely the Lady Éowyn had a few spare dresses to lend?

“And what, pray tell, am I supposed to wear? I can hardly hunt in my silk dresses.” Lothíriel could imagine the horror of riding through the plains in yards of billowing silk, she would most likely trip her horse within a day.

“Surely you will not be expected to actually kill anything?” Gwaedhil shivered at the thought. She was far from ignorant, she knew what must be done to provide meat for the table. Still, she thought it no sport for a Lady.

“King Éomer is not the sort of man who would insult me by making me remain in camp while all the men go off.” Though Lothíriel guessed she really didn’t know what kind of man the King was, she had known him for so little time. But her father called him friend, and for her that was credit enough.

“Even so… what will people say?” Gwaedhil could easily imagine the whispers that would run through the halls of Dol Amroth once they heard the story of their Princess hunting. The members of the Court could be very cruel indeed.

“We are not in Gondor, I am sure people would talk more if I wore my dresses.” Lothíriel knew her handmaiden hadn’t meant the Rohirrim, but she did not feel like contemplating the views of her own people.

A heavy knock came at the door, and before either could answer Amrothos barged his way in. All three were silent at the moment as the young prince stops to stare at his sister. He was pretty sure that those clothes weren’t from home.

“If you say anything I shall make sure an arrow ends up in your rump.” Lothíriel pressed her hands to her hips and glared at her brother. One word from him and she would make sure he stayed silent the rest of the visit.

“Doubtful.” Amrothos cleared his throat, cringing at the creaking sound. “Still, you have to understand I had not expected you to look quite so…”

“Like I am going on a hunt?” Seriously, what had any of them expected her to wear? Full skirts and a boned corset?

“Um, not precisely.” He wanted to say grown up, but then he would have to acknowledge that his sister had indeed become a woman. He really wanted to ignore that for as long as possible. “Where did you get them anyway?”

“Éowyn found them for me, as well as a few changes. She said they had been lying around for some time, apparently they were her brother’s when he was younger.” Ignoring the pinched look on Rothos’ face, Lothíriel grabbed a ribbon from the bedside table and tied her hair back. She would need to ask Gwaedhil to braid it for her later, though elven blood ran through her, she always got her unbound hair caught in her bowstring.

“You are wearing the King’s clothes?” Amrothos blinked, swallowed hard, and felt his hands clench. He might have been a little drunk the night before, but he had observed how the King had looked at his sister. Her showing up in his clothes… looking like that… would only add fuel to the fire. “Oh dear…”

“What?” Lothíriel stopped mid step as she went to gather her cloak, her eyes narrowing at her brother.

“Nothing… let us depart. The others are waiting in the stables.” Rothos knew that look well, and though he wanted to demand Loth to change, he knew doing so would be alike to sticking one’s hand in a vipers nest.

Lothíriel nodded her head sharply, and ignoring the other two in the room, headed out for the stables. She had about enough lecturing for the day, and was looking forward to leaving.

* * *

 

Éomer smiled at the assembly of men gathered around the stables. It had been too long since his people gathered for something more than war and death. He stroked down Firefoot’s neck as he grew restless. He had gone to the stables early in the morning before the sun rose to personally pick out a horse for the Princess. Firefoot had not taken too well to Éomer showing attention to any horse but him, stomping and huffing, and generally doing a horse’s equivalent of pouting. It was amusing, if not annoying.

Laughter brought his attention back to his people and his eyes went wide as they landed on the Princess. He tried to breathe but ended up choking. Éowyn had mentioned to him that Princess Lothíriel had requested clothing appropriate to the Mark. He had not realized that when he told her to provide the younger woman with whatever she needed it would mean his clothing.

Princess Lothíriel stood among the Princes in a set of his old clothes, and he was sure he had never filled them out quite like she did. The brown breaches and green tunic suited her, though he doubted the wisdom of her wearing them. Éomer could see the effect she was making, more than one eye was turned her way. Thankfully her father and brothers would be there to shield her from any unwanted attention.

Éomer stood still as Prince Imrahil escorted his daughter towards him, and he had to shake himself out of his stupor. He smiled when they stopped before him, giving a shallow bow.

“Good morning, my Princess. I hope you had a good night’s rest.” Éomer took the Princess’ hand in a gentle embrace, swallowing hard when he felt her fingers curl ever so slightly around his.

“I did, my King.” Though he had much to drink the night before, Lothíriel could see no evidence of it on the King’s face. Unlike Rothos, the whites of his eyes were not tinged red and he looked as put together as he had the day before. In fact, most of the Riders looked pristine, as though they hadn’t drank and danced the night away.

“That is good.” Realizing he was still holding her hand, he quickly dropped it and motioned to the horse beside him. “Um, this is your horse… for the Hunt. Her name is Sunshower and she will carry you well.”

“Thank you, my Lord, but my mare will do me just fine.” Lothíriel could feel heat beginning to curl up neck and cheeks. More and more she felt as though she was becoming a burden, having to be supplied with clothing and now a horse.

“I have no doubt she is a good mount, my Lady, but she is sure to be tired after your journey here. It would be best to have a fresh mount, as well as one well acquainted with the Mark.” The last thing he wished was to insult the Princess, but he felt he would have to insist on this matter. He looked to Imrahil hoping for help, only to find his friend helping the Princess’ handmaiden to mount her own horse.

“I suppose you are right, I just had no wish to inconvenience you.” Lothíriel sighed and pulled on the unfamiliar tunic. The horse was beautiful, large and sleek, and the color of sunshine. It was obviously and well bred creature.

“And you haven’t. I would be a pretty poor host if I didn’t see to the needs of my guests.” And, he thought, he was a poor host if his guest thought herself an inconvenience. He hoped he hadn’t said anything the night before to make her believe such a thing, if so he knew his sister would break her new found vow of peace just to run him through.

“Very well, then I shall be honored to ride Sunshower.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I said I would have this out Saturday, but like I said on my Tumblr (same user name as here if you want to come say hi) crap happened and I wasn’t able to get this done. Part of that crap was getting stuck at the beginning of this chap.
> 
> The thing is, I had originally planned on having Éomer say this huge speech, but I couldn’t get it to work right, so I kind of copped out and that is why the bit at the beginning is the way it is. I know it is weak, but it was either that or wait even longer for the chapter as I figured it out.  
> Next chapter has more development between Lothíriel and Éomer, and some bits with Erkenbrand.
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


	6. Weakling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunting party makes camp, Eomer and Lothiriel talk, Lothiriel and Erkenbrand talk.

 

During the first day of traveling, Lothíriel had noticed a marked difference between the Rohirrim and her own people. While traveling to Rohan, most of the men refrained from speaking. If they conversed it was done quietly and within small groups. The Rohirrim on the other hand were boisterous, they talked and laughed much the same as they had back in Edoras. Lothíriel had observed several of the men joking with their king like one would any common man. At one point the entire party had risen up in song. Through all of this Lothíriel hadn’t understood a word, but had been happy to let the musical quality of the language wash over her.

The day had since begun to end, and King Éomer had called a halt for the night. Without prompting, the men dismounted and began setting up camp. Lothíriel watched as a group of men began to gather bundles of dried grass and what looked quite like dried dung and pile it in the middle of the camp.

“Wood is scarce in the Mark unless you travel along the forest. It is perhaps not the most eloquent way to produce a fire, but it gets its job done.” Éomer stepped up beside the Princess, slipping off his gloves and tucking them into his belt. It had not occurred to him until his men started camp that the method of fuel might be distasteful to the Princess. For a warrior sleeping exposed on the cold Mark, the manner of building the fire mattered little, only the heat it provided.

Lothíriel looked down to where the king stood, a small crease between his brows. She smiled at him, giving a small shake of her head. “No need to explain, my Lord, we experienced such fires on our way here.”

Letting out a quiet sigh of relief, Éomer looked up at the young woman still seated upon her horse. Shaking himself as the realization that no one had bothered to help the princess, he offered up his hand. “Let me help you down.”  
Lothíriel gave a quick nod, reaching for the King’s hand. Before her fingers could touch his, Éomer had both hands clasped tightly around her waist, quickly pulling her from Sunshower’s back and to the ground.

“Thank you, my Lord.” Breathless, and finding herself in the King’s arms, Lothíriel looked everywhere but up. Her eyes landed on Gwaedhil receiving much the same treatment from Lord Erkenbrand, the other woman seemingly just as flustered as she.

“If you will excuse me, I must help with the camp.” Finding himself unnerved, Éomer cleared his throat and after a short bow left.

Lothíriel ran a hand over her face, pressing lightly against her eyes. It wasn’t as though a man had never helped her dismount before, many of her father’s knights had lent her their help when she returned from a ride. So, she wondered, why did she feel dizzy now?

Unaware of her Lady’s thoughts, Gwaedhil stepped up beside her. “We most certainly did not use dung, we brought wood with us.”

“A detail you shall keep to yourself.” Lothíriel sighed, perhaps it hadn’t been Erkenbrand to fluster her handmaiden. She turned to look at the older woman, clasping her hands in hers. “Hilly, I know none of this is ideal for you, but you must remember we are no longer in Dol Amroth. The Rohirrim are a good people, and life here is different. We shouldn’t make judgements. We certainly wouldn’t want them to do so about us.”

“You are right, my Lady. But eating food cooked over excrement?” Gwaedhil shivered at the thought. She had heard of such things, of the wild and wondering men living off the land, but she had never thought to experience it herself.

“Gwaedhil…” Lothíriel let go of the woman’s hands and gave her a pointed look.

“Sorry, my Lady. I shall just go and supervise the unpacking of your things.” With a gentle bow, Gwaedhil slipped off to the packhorses.

Once alone Lothíriel looked for her brothers, finding them on the other side of the camp with her father and Faramir. She shook her head as she watched Amrothos topple Erchirion into a pile of bracken. She wondered if her brothers would ever grow past such things, and was glad that her father was there to prevent a real fight from breaking out between them.

She made her way through the throng of men, stopping to greet several as they bowed to her. It was one of the things she enjoyed about the Rohirrim, they were a friendly and open people, and not one of them seemed to resent her presence at the Hunt. This was not something she could have said about her own people. Once she made it to her father’s side she reached down to take his pack only to find a hand on her arm.

“I am perfectly able to take care of my own pack, Daughter.” Imrahil used his free hand to take the pack from Lothíriel. He gave her a smile hoping to lessen the blow of his words.

“I know that, but I thought I would help.” Aware of the many ears turned their way, she lowered her voice. She had no desire for their hosts to think that the princess believed Prince Imrahil weak and incapable.

“There is no need, go and rest. I am sure you are tired after a day of riding.” Imrahil ran a hand along his daughter’s cheek, his heart clenching at the sight of her. She had grown to be so much like her mother, beautiful and headstrong.

“Ada, I can help, I want to help.” Noticing the set of her father’s face, Lothíriel turned to her brothers. “Is there nothing I could do? Rothos, Rion?”

“Everything is under control, Loth.” Erchirion bit his lips in an attempt to hold in a laugh. He knew how stubborn his sister could be, and how much the idea of sitting idly by would bother her. He was sure that they would catch an ear-full for it later.

“There are plenty of men to get the work done quickly, just go rest.” Imrahil tossed his pack to his sons, and placing his hands on Lothíriel’s shoulders, turned her around back towards the horses.

“Very well.” With a huff, Lothíriel marched herself away from her family. She couldn’t understand why they were treating her as though she couldn’t even carry a simple pack. Careful not to let out a growl, she plops herself down out of the way and watches as all the men quickly set up camp.

Hammering one last stake into the ground, Éomer catches sight of the Princess marching her way past him. Worried by the pout gracing her lips, he dusts off his hands and joins her.

“And what is troubling you so, Princess?” Aware of his own size, Éomer sits carefully down on the edge of the rock. “No one has said anything to upset you have they?”

“No, I… I am simply unaccustomed to sitting by while others do all the work. I feel useless.” Lothíriel hung her head. She worried that she sounded childish, but she felt wrong-footed by her family’s treatment. She was no babe fresh from the womb, or an invalid unable to feed themselves. She had two capable hands and two capable feet. She may not be as large as the men, but she was no little weakling either.

“Have you asked, surely someone has a job you could fill?” It was not a complaint that Éomer had never heard before, Éowyn had spoken much the same many times. Though he would have to admit he hadn’t expected the same sentiments from the Princess.

“I spoke with my father, but he assures me there are enough men to handle the work and I have been told to rest. Apparently my constitution is so weak that a day atop a horse has drained me.” She knew her voice was bitter, but her father’s words still stung.

“I doubt that.” From what his friend had told him, Éomer could hardly imagine that Imrahil thought his daughter a weakling. “What about back home? You have many duties in Dol Amroth?”

“A great many. I know people believe that all I do is sit around while others wait on me hand and foot, but the reality is much different. I know for many princesses of the past a life of idleness was normal, but in these times of darkness Dol Amroth could hardly afford to have a lazy princess.” Lothíriel sighed and hung her head into her hands. “I was ten when my mother died, and Dol Amroth needed a lady to head the house. I was young, but I took on those duties.”

“Your father told me that you took over the headship of the palace during the war, but I had no idea you had been doing it for so long.” Éomer started to reach out to take the Princess’s hand only to catch himself at the last minute. He knew what it was like to be thrust into adulthood at such a young age, to find oneself with more responsibilities than one should as a child.

“I can hardly remember a time when I didn’t have responsibilities. And now my family are treating me as though carrying a small pack will make me grow faint.” Lothíriel stopped herself from kicking out at a small stone at her feet, but only just. Not long ago she was alone and protecting their home, now she wasn’t even allowed to help unpack.

“I can’t speak for them, but perhaps in this they have found the opportunity to allow you some rest, to be waited on for once.” Éomer watched with a smile as the Princess’s head shot up, her eyes narrowed as she looked over towards her father.

“I had not thought about it that way.” She shook her head and dared to look at the man beside her. The breathlessness from earlier was gone, but he still made her feel dizzy. “Even so, I’m not used to it. It is a strange feeling.”

Éomer laughed as he stood, his hand tingling from where he wanted to set it on the younger woman’s shoulder.

“Do not worry about it so much, just enjoy it. Now, it would be best if you headed nearer the fire, the air will be growing colder as the sun sets.”

* * *

 

Chewing on a piece of dried meat, Éomer nodded to Eothain beside him. He had been conversing with several of his men, listening to the older ones as they reminisced about the Hunts of old. It reminded him of when he was a child and would sit at his father’s feet in the evenings while he told stories of their people. Only Éomer found that he could not stay focused, the tales of troll-sized deer held little interest for him. His eyes, like his mind, kept wandering to the Princess seated across the fire with her family.

Most in the Mark had a singular opinion of the women of Gondor, that they were delicate white flowers easily damaged. He would admit that he had believed the same. Though now he knew he would have to reexamine his ideas.

After the battle upon Pelennor Fields he had met several Gondorian women within the Houses of Healing, but they had not been members of the court. Regardless he had been too preoccupied with his sister to really pay attention. He’d had no other opportunity to converse with them, and so his view of Gondor’s women had remained as it always had been. Now though, he had only known the Princess for a couple of days, but she had already destroyed several of his preconceptions.

His eyes once again strayed to the subject of his thoughts, and he couldn’t help the quiet laugh that escaped his lips. The Princess sat between her brothers, batting away their hands as they tugged at her hair and teased her about her clothes. It was a scene he knew well, closely mirroring many such interactions he had with his own sister.

The thought of Éowyn wiped the smile from his lips. Before the war she would’ve begged to be able to join the Hunt, citing the training she had at their cousin’s hands. She would have loved running around in his old clothes, eating before the fire, and riding out to hunt with a bow in her hand. Now she remained in Edoras, clothed in finery and acting the queen in his absence. It felt somehow wrong, and yet he could find no fault in his sister. She had her wounds, same as he, and she deserved to deal with them as she wished. He would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a measure of relief that Éowyn no longer found desire in danger, but he also had to admit that the change in her left a strange taste in his mouth.

A shriek from across the fire pulled him from his darkening thoughts. He smiled again as the Princess’s handmaiden dropped her stitching in the dirt at her feet. A beetle had apparently crawled upon the fabric when she hadn’t been looking. He could hear her making excuses that it had simply startled her and the Princess gently teasing her.

Éomer shook his head, maybe not all of his ideas on Gondorian women were wrong after all.

* * *

 

The day’s riding had been harder than the trip to Rohan, but Lothíriel was sure the Rohirrim were actually slowing down for her sake. She wanted to feel insulted, but really she was just relieved. She was a fair rider, but she had little time or opportunity back in Dol Amroth for such pursuits. As a result she found herself sore and tired.

She skirted around the fire, bidding goodnight to the men as she did so. Few of the men had turned in, though conversation had slowed down to a quiet murmur. One of the Rohirrim had brought out a lute, and the air was now filled with soft, wordless music. The relaxing tune followed Lothíriel all the way to her tent.

Entering the tent, she wondered if some mistake had been made, for surely she now stood within the King’s own tent. The whole thing had to be the size of a small room, the canvas painted with the same imagery as the Golden Hall. Furs covered the ground, creating a warm floor to walk on. Instead of the simple pallets she had expected, two wooden frame cots had been set up at one corner.

She shook her head at her obvious mistake and turned back out of the tent. In doing so she ran straight into Marshal Erkenbrand. Thankfully the older man caught her shoulders before she could fall.

“Is anything wrong, my Lady?” Erkenbrand removed his hands from the young princess, his eyes quickly taking in his surroundings. Though the war was over, there were still those who wished to do harm and it was his job to protect those in the Mark. Even if they were guests.

“I am just looking for my tent, it seems I’ve entered the King’s by mistake.” Lothíriel felt an embarrassed laugh bubble up her throat and tramped it down.

Turning his eyes to the tent beside him, Erkenbrand shook his head. “Nay, this is your tent.”

“It is very grand, surely King Éomer has not been put out for my sake.” She could hardly live with herself if the King slept on the ground because of her.

“Éomer King ordered for the finest tents to be packed for his guests.” Waving his hand out, he gestured towards the line of tents surrounding them. Several others of the same quality were pitched for the Gondorian guests. “Do not fret, he will hardly be sleeping on the dirt.”

“Do all the Rohirrim have tents such as these?” Growing up she had heard tales of the Rohirrim, like wild men she had been told. No one back home would believe what elegance these people actually possessed.

“Most of the tents you will find in the Mark are simple structures of canvas and pole. Tents like these are meant for more permanent purposes. Many of our people are nomadic, and will use these as homes.” A smile slid across Erkenbrand’s face. He hadn’t always been Marshal, and had once in his youth traveled with a family across the Mark. “For a warrior though… when an eored is sent out they bring little else but provisions of food and water, and perhaps a roll of canvas or hide for sleeping. There has been many a time I have slept on the ground while the skies poured over me.”

“That sounds like a very lonely life.” Lothíriel thought about the King, traveling out on the Mark all these years, and she felt her heart clench.

“Perhaps, but one’s eored becomes their family.” Seeing the heaviness of the Princess’s eyes, Erkenbrand leaned over to slip the tent opening aside. “And you, my dear Princess, should probably go to bed before you sleep where you stand.”

“A good suggestion, and one I shall take.” At the mention of sleep, Lothíriel felt her whole body become heavy. It had been a long few days and she would welcome rest. “Goodnight, Marshal.”

“Goodnight, my Lady.” Erkenbrand waited until the Princess had fully entered the tent before moving on. His king would never forgive him if he allowed the young woman to pass out where she stood.

Pressing a hand against her mouth to hide her yawn, Lothíriel reentered the tent. Gwaedhil followed moments after, her own eyes fighting against falling shut.

“It is nice to see that we have a proper tent, nothing like the hide cover I saw some of the men pitch. How a man can sleep in such a way, I will never understand.” Gwaedhil’s back hurt just thinking about it. Man was never meant to sleep in the dirt like some animal.

“Even if we had nothing more than hide we would make due.” Lothíriel ignored the look she was sure her handmaiden was sending her and proceeded to undress.

“Yes, well… We best get to sleep. I have no doubt that it will be an early morning.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so it has been way, WAY too long. Sorry about that, life got in the way, part of which is school. Thank goodness this is my last year.   
> Anyway, short chapter, but when I went to work on it I realized that a great deal of what I had written needed to be cut and it was best not to fuse it with the next chapter.  
> Also, I know Gwaedhil seems like a whiny bitch, but she has been thrust into something she was not prepared for. And just like the Rohirrim have their ideas about Gondorians, so to do Gondorians have their ideas about the Rohirrim. So don’t judge her too harshly, she is a nice woman.
> 
> Next chapter: The ride continues on, they finally make camp for the hunt, lots and lots of Eomer/Lothiriel bonding and interaction going on, a new character introduces himself, and Lothiriel begins to realize there is something deeper about the king.
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


	7. A Beginning for Friendships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ride continues on, they finally make camp for the hunt, lots and lots of Eomer/Lothiriel bonding and interaction going on, a new character introduces himself, and Lothiriel begins to realize there is something deeper about the king.

 

Lothíriel looked about her as they moved across the Mark, nothing but open fields and a few rocks seemed to be around them. It was different than Dol Amroth, which was filled with huge majestic cliffs and shell-pink beaches. Still, she found the Riddermark to be beautiful. The tall grasses danced in the wind, giving the illusion of a golden ocean swaying in great waves over the land. Watching as the land spread out around her, she had the desire to see Rohan in the height of summer, when the grasses would blush green and be dappled about with the swaying caps of flowers.

Dol Amroth changed very little from season to season. The grasses upon the cliffs would dim to a dull grey-green in the fall, and what trees were to be found would shed their fine green manes. Though the biggest change she could think of would be the skies. Dol Amroth in the summer had skies like the eyes of a newborn child, bright, clear blue. In winter it turned a stormy grey, much the same color as sword steel beneath a full moon.

Lothíriel imagined that Rohan changed its robes with each season, and she greatly wished to witness it.

Éomer glanced over to the young princess, seeing her eyes wander over the land. He was sure the sight of the Mark was surprising for one accustomed to the sea. With only a moment’s thought, he allowed Firefoot to carry him towards Lothíriel until he rode beside her.

“Wool-gathering?” His voice was pitched so he could be heard, but it still carried a distinct lightness. He was used to having to shout, but then lately he had been riding into battle.

“Simply taking in the sights, My Lord.” Lothíriel glanced over towards the king. She noted how familiar he was upon his horse. The massive animal appeared more of an extension of the man than a separate being. She had noticed the same thing in all of the Rohirrim men.

“All this must be quite different from home, all this grass unhindered by shores.” He removed his eyes from the princess and set them on the world around him. He had grown up here, with the vast plains of grass that stretched on and on. He tried to picture it from an outsider’s view, and thought it must be strange.

“Oh, it is. I have never seen such open fields before, not even in Minas Tirith. Dol Amroth is… though my home rests upon the earth, it is very much apart of the sea. The waters flow into the sandy shores, which flow into Dol Amroth itself. There are caves along the beaches where creatures long ago used to dwell, now they serve as playgrounds for children. Summer brings the warm waters, and everyone takes time to bathe in the sea.” Lothíriel looked over to the king with a fond smile. “Though do not mistake my admiration for my home. Rohan may be different, but it is just as majestic.”

“You should see it on Midsummer. The Mark is a sea of green grass and soft flowers, and the lights of the bonfires can be seen from every corner.” Midsummer had been his favorite since he had been a boy. The days leading up to the fire festival were filled with sweet treats sold in the marketplace. Venders would set up special booths to accommodate the many desserts. The air would be filled with the scent of warm honey and flowers, and hot buttered oatcakes. Then Midsummer day would arrive and the whole of the Mark would be in a frenzy as the bonfires were prepared for the evening. Though he hadn’t much appreciated that part of the festival until he had been grown.

“Oh, but that would be lovely to see.” She tried to imagine the world around her bright with fire, and she thought it would turn the Mark into a glittering jewel.

“You shall have to return for the feasts.” The words were out of his mouth before he had the chance to stop them. He was sure it was improper to ask her directly. In fact he knew it was. The invitation should have gone through her father. They were not acquainted enough for such familiarity.

“I wish that I could. Dol Amroth has its own festival, and after the war I think it would be best if I was present.” She smiled slightly as she thought about Midsummer in Dol Amroth. The beaches would be filled with people. The whole place echoing with music and laughter. She would enjoy going down to celebrate without the shadow of war looming over them.

Silence fell between them as they both drifted off into their own thoughts. The desire to see Rohan in all its seasons had Lothíriel wishing that her station were lower. That she could run off without a word or concern and see all that Rohan had to offer.

“The land is so vast here. How long until we near the hunting grounds?” Lothíriel thought to distract herself from the increasingly sad thoughts. Now was not the time for flights of fancy about running off to explore Middle-Earth.

“We shall arrive before nightfall.” Éomer gave the princess a small smirk. “Surely you are not growing tired already?”

“Nothing of the sort. I merely wondered how far out we would be traveling.” Lothíriel gave a raised brow to the king. The man was nothing like she had imagined. He was a loyal and powerful leader, yes, but the cheek on that man.

“We won’t be going as far as we had when I was a child. The war might be over, but Orcs still roam the further out you go.” His voice was bitter no matter how hard he tried to conceal it. He cleared his throat when he realized what he had said and to whom. He didn’t want the princess believing she was in danger. “Though there is little need to worry, Princess, you travel with the greatest warriors in all of Rohan.”

“I’m not worried. My father and brothers are with me after all.”

* * *

 

As Éomer had said, just before nightfall they came to a stop. The sun still shone enough for the collection of grasses and dung, but as it would soon set the camp was busy with men moving about setting up tents and building fires.

Lothíriel didn’t even bother this time to offer help, just dusted off her leggings and set herself near where the biggest fire was being built. She watched as Gwaedhil slipped down from her horse, biting her lip at the sight. The woman looked as though someone had strapped poles to her legs, she was moving so stiffly. One of the other Rohir men saw her line of sight and gave a soft chuckle.

“It appears as though your handmaiden is not as comfortable as My Lady is on a horse.” The man’s voice was deep, much more than the King’s, and filled with laughter. He sat himself down on the ground beside the princess’s feet, his body angled in her direction.

“No, but it is hardly her fault. She was raised in service, taught how to care for a lady and her feminine needs. She has never had need to ride such great distances.” Lothíriel ignored how familiar the man acted. During her short days in Rohan she had come to realize how friendly the people were. Strangers drank together just the same as friends would. “In fact most of the time she doesn’t sit astride a horse at all.”

“If I may ask, how are you so comfortable upon a horse, My Lady? Surely you traveled within that covered contraption as well?” The man’s face was pinched when he spoke of the strange wagon that had accompanied the party from Dol Amroth.

“I had, but not out of choice. It would not do for the Princess of Dol Amroth to ride out like a man.” She held herself in check, lest she roll her eyes like she desired to. It was bothersome that such restrictions existed. She had grown understanding the need, but had never agreed with them.

“But still you know how?” The man began plucking blades of grass from the ground, twisting and weaving them around as he spoke.

“Aye, though many of my people would think less of me should they know. Still, it was out of necessity that I was first taught. It is a good skill for one to have in the dark times we grew up in. And now… well now I enjoy it. Though I know I am nowhere as skilled as the Rohirrim.” She gave a little laugh, though she was anything but bitter.

She had heard many stories of the skill of these people, and the Rohirrim didn’t disappoint. She was in wonder at how well they communicated with their horses, at how both man and beast moved as one. Even though the Swan Knights were trained for years, not even they sat with the same ease as the men did.

“I doubt it would take you much, just spend enough time with the King and you will return home in the style of the Rohirrim.” Laughing quietly to himself, the man set aside the handful of grass and gave a little bow. Or as much of one as he could while remaining on the ground. “I have occupied your ear for some time now, and have been rude enough not to introduce myself. I am Eothain.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Eothain.” Lothíriel dipped her head slightly, following his example and remaining seated.

Eothain smiled at the slight nod of the Princess’ head and picked the mass of grasses back up. The woman was truly beautiful, he could see why so many of the men had trouble keeping their eyes ahead of them. He turned and continued his project, unwilling to part from the Princess’ presence at the moment.

Lothíriel was quiet for a moment, content to just watch the Rohir weave. She thought back on the past couple of days and a few points that had been bothering her. She was loath to break the silence, but she wondered if he would help. “May I inquire something of you?”

“I shall endeavor to answer whatever you ask.” Eothain turned back around, his fingers still working at the blades of grass in his hand.

“I have wondered since I arrived, have women joined the Great Hunt before?” She felt the knot in her chest loosen at the bright smile the man sent her way.

“Yes, though maybe not as many as there had been when our people had been younger.” Eothain looked up at the sky as though calling a memory to him. “I remember joining the Hunt when I had been but a small boy. That had been before the King had stopped it. No woman had joined then, but my mother had gone several times when she had been younger. She loves to tell the story of her last Hunt. She had been heavy with me at the time. To hear her tell it, she was a full nine months and had shot a great buck all the while I had been kicking. A desire to join the Hunt, she claimed.”

“Is that true?” Lothíriel found herself edging forward, eager to hear any tale Eothain might tell.

“No, she had only been six months along. Still impressive I think.” Eothain laughed, his mother was known for her tall-tales. So much so that no one ever believed her when she spoke. His father on the other hand, well he was about as serious as they came. He often wondered what drove them together.

Lothíriel nodded and let out a short breath. It was comforting to know that other women had joined the Hunt. She had been afraid that the King had only invited her along because of her father. Though kind, it didn’t sit well with her.

Eothain noticed the look of unease on the princess’s face. He had to remember that life was very different where she was from. He doubted many Gondorian women even knew how to hunt, let alone joined their husbands.

“Do not worry, My Lady, your presence is hardly bothersome. I think I can speak for all of us when I say that it is nice to have such a beauty to look upon. Much better than our old king.”

“You must charm all the ladies.” Lothíriel shook her head. This man reminded her much of Amrothos. She was sure that he had his share of women vying for his attention and his bed. He was the sort of man women loved and he knew it, funny, handsome, and strong. Yet as she watched him weave the small blades of grass into delicate patterns she knew he most likely also had a gentle touch.

“I do my best.” Eothain winked with a wicked grin. “Now, just enjoy yourself and try not to worry so much.”

Éomer rounded the corner, his arms full of dried grass to fuel the fire. His eyes landed on Eothain lounging casually next to the Princess. He knew how his old friend was around the ladies, and had the Princess not had a smile on her face he would have been worried. Catching his eye he raised a brow at the other man. Eothain just winked again and stood from the ground.

“Well, looks like I am wanted elsewhere, My Lady. I shall bid you a goodnight.” Eothain leaned down and took the Princess’ hand in his own, kissing the back lightly. He curled her fingers around the woven grass and gave her fingers one last kiss.

Éomer rolled his eyes at his friend’s display. Eothain had always been a charmer, though he doubted he would get anywhere with the Princess. He shook his head as Eothain passed him by and patted him on the shoulder. The man had never changed.

“Your men seem so comfortable around you.” Lothíriel didn’t look up at the king, her eyes focused on the delicately braided circlet of grass. The grass made swirling patterns that flowed into intricate knotwork. It wasn’t very large, and would probably fit perfectly on her wrist. With a smile she slipped it over her hand.

“Many of the men joining us were warriors of my eored when I was Marshal.” Éomer lowered himself down onto the ground where his friend had just been. “With Eothain though, I’ve known him all my life. Besides Éowyn and Théodred, Eothain is my oldest friend.”

“In many ways life in Rohan is much simpler than in Dol Amroth.” She left off her examination of her gift and focused on the man before her.

Éomer looked sharply at the Princess, his brows furrowed at her statement. He sat up straight meaning to ask her what she meant when she shook her hand at him and continued on.

“I don’t mean that as an insult. It’s just that life in Rohan isn’t dictated by court intrigues. And how here a member of the King’s family can befriend someone who isn’t of noble birth.” She sounded sad when she spoke, though she had tried to conceal it.

“Do you not have friends?” Éomer relaxed again, though scolded himself over his reaction. He would have to remember not to jump quickly to conclusions. It had always been a weakness of his.

“I did, once.” She found herself running her fingers over the circlet as she spoke. “There was a daughter of one of the noble families that I used to play with. We had been great friends. Sadly she became ill when we had only been twelve. My father wouldn’t let me visit for fear of me growing sick myself. She died a few months later. There have been others through the years, but my responsibilities had become great with the death of my mother and I had little time for fun and games.” She swallowed back a few tears that threatened to fall. “My closest friends beyond my brothers would have to be my sister-in-law and Gwaedhil.”

“Well then, My Lady, I hope you use this time to make new friends.” Éomer couldn’t imagine the life that she painted. It sounded almost lonely.

“I think I shall, in fact I’m pretty sure I have already made one.”

* * *

 

Lothíriel couldn’t sleep no matter how hard she tried. She could hear the gentle snores of Gwaedhil in the cot across from hers and she wished she could’ve rested so quickly. The entire camp had retired to bed early that night after a simple meal, each knowing they would have to wake before the sun to begin the Hunt. She wondered how many of them tossed in their beds as she did.

Growing tired of her restlessness, Lothíriel rose from her cot and wound the heavy fur throw around her shoulders. She slipped from her tent quietly, hoping not to disturb the other woman still sleeping. She hadn’t managed to go far before she noticed a figure just beyond the camp. At first afraid of attack, she started to turn towards one of the Rohirrim tents. The glimpse of long golden hair stopped her as she realized that the figure was that of the King.

He stood just a ways beyond the camp, his gaze out towards the Mark. His form was edged in the bright light of the moon, and Lothíriel imagined that he looked like one of the warriors of legend standing there.

She didn’t call out to him, and he seemed not to notice her. For a long while she stood there barefoot in the cold dirt and watched the man. When her toes finally began to grow numb she turned and went back to her tent.

She never saw the king turn her way at the sound of her footsteps, or the wet shine of his eyes in the moonlight.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last chapter for 2016! I wanted to get this out before the end of the year, so here we are. I haven’t updated this in awhile because I’ve been working on getting chapters prepared. I have at the moment up to chapter 10 done, all I have to do if flesh them out and edit them before posting. Before I post chapter 7 I wanted to get 11 and 12 done also. There are actually 19 chapters, so this is all looking pretty good.
> 
> Now, enter Eothain, and no I will not be doing a love triangle. It was just as I was writing Eothain decided to remind me he was a bit of a flirt. I thought it was cute to have him make the bracelet, one that probably did annoy Éomer even if he didn’t say anything.
> 
> Next Chapter: Amrothos is a little shit, first day of the hunt, Éomer makes a couple of kind gestures, story time, Éomer and Lothíriel bond a little more.
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


	8. Storyteller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amrothos is a little shit, first day of the hunt, Éomer makes a couple of kind gestures, story time, Éomer and Lothíriel bond a little more.

  
  
  
  The sun was just peaking over the horizon when Lothíriel was awoken abruptly. Amrothos had positioned himself outside of his sister’s tent where he knew her cot was located. Slowly he grabbed handfuls of the canvas, and with great violence, shook it. 

  
  
  The occupants of the tent bolted up right at the disturbance. Lothíriel grabbed the dagger beside her bed, her fingers curling around the fine shell handle until they were white from lack of blood. She took no time to think as she flung herself from her cot, the hand with the dagger halfway to the tent side before she heard the familiar laughter outside. She stopped her hand short before she could release the blade. Her mind solely on revenge, Lothíriel darted outside clothed in nothing but her nightshift.   
  


  The entire camp went quiet the moment she stepped out of her tent. The men stared in wonder at the scantily clad princess. She looked like an avenging Shieldmaiden, her dark hair wild from sleep and the dagger clasped tightly in her hand. None of this was noticed by the young woman, so intent on punishing her brother was she. It was Amrothos’ shout and wide eyes that caught her attention.   
  


  “Lothíriel!” Amrothos waved a hand up and down, all the while his eyes remained wide. Sometimes he wondered when his little sister had grown up. Though now was not the time to dwell on that, as an entire camp of men had their eyes fixed on her.   
  


  Looking down at herself, Lothíriel blinked. With a scowl to her brother she marched back into the tent, her cheeks a bright red. Gwaedhil stood at the end of her cot, the thick pelt she had used during the night wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She looked shaken, but not enough to keep the scolding frown from her face.   
  


  “What were you thinking going out there so unclothed?! All those men, seeing you in nothing but your nightdress.” Gwaedhil pulled the pelt tighter around her shoulders, as though in doing so would lead to her charge being clothed.   
  


  “Be glad that I had even that on.” Lothíriel huffed and tossed the dagger onto her cot. She ignored the disapproving glare from the older woman. It was a source of contention between the two. Lothíriel had the habit of going to bed nude in the warmer months. It was a trick she had learned when she was younger, before her body had begun to blossom out into womanhood. Dol Amroth could grow sticky with heat in the summer. The thick nightshifts that Gwaedhil insisted on her wearing stuck to her sweaty skin, making the nights unbearable.     
  


  “Well, I never…” Gwaedhil fussed about Lothíriel, pulling at the nightshift until it fell from her shoulders and sending her to the pile of clothes laid out on her cot. “That brother of yours has always been a trouble maker. I’ve always said that he needed a good lashing.”   
  


  Lothíriel kept quiet as Gwaedhil brushed and braided her hair. All she could think about was the look that the King had given her just before she fled back into her tent. He hadn’t looked annoyed or even scandalized as any man in Gondor would have. His eyes had been focused solely on her, and they had looked dark. It was not a look she was used to getting from men.   
  


  Gwaedhil refused to allow her to leave until she deemed her presentable. When she finally did it was to the scene of her father giving Amrothos a verbal lashing for his little trick. She doubted her father cared much about what his son had done, but more of what it had caused. Back in Dol Amroth the two of them took turns in torturing the other with harmless pranks.  
  


  Erchirion watched on, a hand over his mouth as he tried not to laugh at his brother’s misfortune. He had told Rothos that it had been a bad idea, but his little brother rarely ever listened to him.   
  


  Uncaring that she was around more than just her family, Lothíriel sat down beside Erchirion and smacked him on the back of the head. “And what are you laughing about? I am sure you knew about this.”   
  


  Éomer laughed as he watched Erchirion rub the back of his head with a pout on his face. He sat down beside the princess, leaning against the stool she sat on.   
  


  “You three remind me very much of my sister and myself.” Éomer smiled as he thought on the long days of summer when he was young. He and his sister had given their uncle a lot of trouble, pulling pranks on each other and others.      
  


  “Then I feel sorry for your sister.” Lothíriel tried to remove the look the king had given her from her mind, but it was hard with how close he was to her. Heat poured off him, warming the side of her leg closest to him.    
  


  “What makes you think that I was the one causing mischief?” Eomer ignored the snort of amusement from some of his older men. Many of them had been targets of his sister and his pranks.    
  


  Lothíriel looked down at the king with a raised brow. In her experience it was always the brother… well the brother who started it anyway.   
  


  “You don’t know Éowyn very well.” Éomer had to keep himself in check. He had found himself wanting to nudge her leg in jest as he would any of his friends. The problem lied in who she was, the unmarried daughter of a neighboring prince, and his friend. To act so unseemly towards the princess, mostly amongst company, could have consequences beyond angering her father.     
  


  “You were both nightmares.” Eothain laughed as he sat down beside the group, handing out bits of hard bread and fruit for the morning meal.   
  


  Éomer rolled his eyes. “If I remember right, you were there right along with us.”   
  


  “I never said otherwise.” Eothain winked at the princess and took a large bite from his bread.   
  


  The conversation came to a stop as Amrothos shuffled into view. He looked properly chastised, his eyes focused on the ground. Lothíriel waited as her brother stood there, holding back a laugh when Erchirion kicked his shin. Amrothos glared at him, but turned to his sister.   
  


  “I’m sorry for this morning, that was… childish of me.” Amrothos bit his cheek after that, holding back any retort that wished to pass his lips at the chittering he could hear from his brother. When they returned to Dol Amroth he would be paying for that.   
  


  “You were lucky, Rothos, you were almost run through.” Lothíriel pulled her dagger from her boot, flashing it in the early morning sunlight. She wasn’t normally a vindictive person, but she took delight in the look of fear on her brother’s face.   
  


  “I shall keep that in mind.” Amrothos swallowed, his eyes on the rather sharp blade in his sister’s hand.   
  


  Imrahil, having listened in to his children, sat himself down within the little group. He turned to Éomer, an apologetic smile stretching across his lips.   
  


  “I understand that there is a way about the Great Hunt. How shall we proceed today?” Imrahil knew that his children had understood the meaning of his change of subject when they had turned their eyes down. The atmosphere might have been relaxed, but that was no reason for them to behave as they had.   
  


  “We shall divide into parties and hunt until the evening. Each party will bring provisions for the midday meal, and when we return to camp we shall have a feast.” Eomer sat up fully, focusing his attention on his friend. “It is tradition that the kill of the first day is given to the hunters, to strengthen them for the rest of the Great Hunt.”   
  


  “There is a similar tradition amongst the fishermen of Dol Amroth. The first catch of the season is shared among the crew in good luck.” Imrahil remembered when he was younger, when he had joined in on his first fishing trip. That night after the first catch had been filled with singing and merriment. It had been a night that had long lived in his mind.   
  


  “I wish to ask, Prince Imrahil, that you and your family join my party for today’s hunt.” It was tradition that honored guests should ride with the King and his party. Eomer found though that even if it wasn’t he would have wished them to join.    
  


  “I would be honored, as I am sure my children are.”   
  


* * *

  
  


  Lothíriel rode behind her father and the King. Her mount, Sunshower, sure and steady in her strides. Lothíriel had grown fond of the horse in the short amount of time they had been together, and she knew that she would miss her once she returned home. Reaching out, she ran a single hand down the horse’s slick neck. Sunshower had lived up to her name, her sunny golden pelt shimmered in the morning light, revealing hidden strands of silver. Amrothos and Eothain snickered at her sides, but she ignored them. Let them laugh, though she had seen her own brother admiring his mount with a gleam in his eyes.   
  


  “Gwaedhil should have stayed back at camp.” Amrothos glanced behind them where Erchirion spoke with Erkenbrand. Both men had reigned in their horses, keeping a slow pace in order to keep the woman company.   
  


  “It is no bother that she wanted to come, the more pretty maids the merrier.” Eothain threw a brazen wink behind him, catching the eyes of Gwaedhil. The woman looked away, her pale cheeks quickly blushing red.   


 

  Lothíriel snorted at Eothain, her own face turning red when the king turned around to investigate. A slow smile spread across his lips when she indicated the source of her amusement. A smile that she found she could not help but return. With a shake of his head, he turned back to converse with her father. The spell of his gaze broken, Lothíriel rejoined her own conversation.     
  


  “She wanted to come about as much as she would want to bathe in leech infested waters, but she has a very strong sense of duty and refused to leave my side. I hope that after today she will be convinced to remain at camp from now on.”    
  


  Eothain nodded behind him with a laugh. “At least our Erkenbrand doesn’t seem to mind.”   
  


  Eothain’s suggestion brought Lothíriel’s eyes behind her. The man in question looked to be talking to Erchirion, but every few seconds he would look away from her brother towards Gwaedhil. Her eyes widened at what that obviously meant for her friend and handmaiden, but she refused to speak anything on the matter.   
  


  They had ridden a good deal away from the camp before King Éomer signaled them all to a halt with a silent wave of his hand. His voice was barely a murmur as he leaned over to speak with Imrahil. Lothíriel kept her eyes on the two men, curious as to what they were discussing. Before she could think to ask, her father gave the king a nod and slowly trotted off in front of the party. Keeping silent, King Éomer gestured towards the patch of land before them.   
  


  “I would say that we are about to come upon our first kill.” Eothain had leaned over to whisper quietly to the princess, his arms taught with the effort. He was careful to keep his distance, knowing that the men surrounding him would run him through should any thought of him being improper arise. He opened his mouth to continue, but before he could say anything more the king dismounted, stopping before the princesss’s mount.   
  


  “I’m sorry, Princess, but for now we shall have to continue on foot.” Eomer reached up to pat Sunshower gently on the neck. He had known the horse would be a good mount for the princess, gentle, but with a surety in her hoof that only came from the well-bred.    
  


  “A little walking has never hurt anyone.” Lothíriel nodded down at the man beside her. She knew the tall grasses and thick bracken of the Mark would be harsher to traverse than the neatly trimmed pathways of Dol Amroth, but she had endured the war, she could deal with scratched legs.   
  


  Éomer reached up and quickly swung the young princess down from Sunshower’s back. The lady was taller than most Rohirrim women, but still stood a good head shorter than himself. Working quickly and silently, he helped her strap her quiver to her back and secure her bow in hand. He gestured once more before him, keeping himself beside her as the party moved slowly forward.   
  


  “Have you been taught the use of the bow, my Princess?” The question would have been impertinent had she been born of the Mark. Their women knew how to wield both sword and bow, even if they never had need of them. He hoped he had not insulted her, but he knew little of the women of Gondor beyond stories.   
  


  “Aye, both my father and brothers have seen to my training.” Lothíriel matched her voice to the king’s, keeping it soft and too low for the others to hear. What she had told him was true enough, she had been trained in the use of the weapon since she had been six. The problem was she hadn’t progressed past training field practice.   
  


  The party moved forward slowly and silently after that, their horses remaining calmly behind. Lothíriel thought it was a credit to their breeding how still the horses remained, as though they understood that a single noise from them could disturb the whole hunt. It was a difference between their people. Though Dol Amroth bred horses for their knights, the bond between man and animal was nowhere as strong as it was in Rohan.   
  


  Éomer raised a hand in signal, once again halting the party. Lothíriel removed her thoughts from that of the horses and back to the Hunt. Her father was several steps ahead of them still astride his horse. He carried no bow or staff, his hands holding firmly instead on his reins. Realizing that the king must have set him orders, she turned her attention back to her party.   
  


  Every man readied an arrow for flight. Following example, Lothíriel pulled an arrow of her own from her quiver. Her eyes quickly scanned her companions, all but Gwaedhil were positioned for the kill. Her handmaiden instead was crouched on the ground beside Erkenbrand looking miserable. She had no time to feel sorry for the woman, as at that moment the sound of her father’s horse brought her attention back in front of her.   
  


  Prince Imrahil took off in a gallop towards the patch of grass the king had indicated. In a whirl of feathers a flock of dull colored birds took flight. Arrows followed, passing above the Prince’s head and straight towards their prey.   
  


  Lothíriel let loose her own arrow, hoping that if it didn’t hit a bird that it would at least hit the ground and miss her father. The arrow went wide, landing harmlessly in the dirt several feet away from anything. She looked around to see if anyone noticed her, but her companions were too busy taking aim for what birds remained.   
  


  It was going to be a long day.   
  


* * *

  
  


  The day had wore on in much the same fashion. The King or other members of the party would spot a flock of birds or such and one of the men would flush them out as the rest shot. By the time they returned to camp the King’s party has amassed several types of fowl and one large snake. The snake had been an unexpected addition to their haul, and had only found its way to camp because it had the misfortune to sneak up on Gwaedhil, who promptly stomped on its head. Lothíriel hadn’t shot anything, as far as she could tell, but no one said anything of it.   
  


  Lothíriel bit her lips as she dismounted to keep a painful moan from sounding. She was wet, sore, and covered with filth from the day. At that moment she wanted nothing more than to be back in Dol Amroth, soaking in her grand tub with the many scented oils they had imported in. She didn’t voice her thoughts though, just went to her tent in order to wash the best that she could. She was surprised when she entered the canvased structure, only to find a large basin filled with steaming water.   
  


  “I hope I wasn’t too presumptuous, but I thought that you may enjoy a wash with more than a cloth.” Eomer stood in the doorway of Lothíriel’s tent, his eyes on the back of the princess. She looked nothing like the refined woman who had joined in on the farewell feast. Gone was the fine dress and pearl-white skin, in their place he found heavy leather, linen, and muddy, sun-kissed flesh. Even so, she still wore it regally. “I ordered a few of my men to return early to prepare this for you. It is not much, nothing like…”   
  


  “It is perfect, thank you, my Lord.” Lothíriel turned to give Eomer a small smile, one that quickly turned into a laugh as a bowlegged Gwaedhil pushed past the king into the tent. She bit down on her lips, hoping that her handmaiden hadn’t heard her.   
  


  “King you may be, but this is still a Lady’s room and I will not have you standing here gawking at my charge while she bathes. Shoo, off with you!” Gwaedhil waved and pushed at the king, uncaring of his higher station. A man was a man no matter what title he might be in possession of.    
  


  Éomer laughed and shook his head, the handmaiden reminded him very much of the nursemaid that had taken care of him and his sister when they had been young. She too had little care for his position and would tan his hide if she thought he needed it; which she had on many occasion.   
  


  “And rightly so, my Lady Gwaedhil. I shall bid you both goodbye for now.” Éomer tipped his head to both ladies and slipped out of the tent to do a bit of his own washing up.   
  


  “Gwinny! King Éomer is our host, I can’t believe you would dare talk to him in such a way.” All laughter had left her the moment her handmaiden had laid a hand on the king. The woman was fortunate that King Eomer was a kind man, had she done the same to her uncle she would have found herself without a head.  
  


  “In all other cases I would never even think to, but it was improper for him to step in here.” Gwaedhil refused to feel sorry for her behavior, her duty was to the protection of Princess Lothíriel and she wouldn’t allow anything to disrupt that.    
  


  “We are no longer in Dol Amroth, what is proper and improper may not be the same.” She wasn’t sure why she had brought the subject up; she had no desire for the king to remain while she bathed.   
  


  “I highly doubt, my Lady, that even in Rohan it is proper for a man to enter an unmarried woman’s chambers.” Gwaedhil gave her young charge an unimpressed look, as though to warn her of the ridiculousness of her statement.   
  


  “I’m sure if he was invited…”   
  


  “Hush you! One day in the company of men and you start sounding like your brothers. I fear for when we return home.” She shook her head; the Prince would have her head if he ever heard his daughter talking the way she was.   
  


  “You have feared for me long before then.” Lothíriel laughed as she began to unlace her boots. “Come on, the King has so graciously provided a bath for us. Let us not waste it.”   
  


  The basin wasn’t very large, nothing that she could have sat down in. Still, it was hot, clean water and she was going to enjoy it. Ignoring the stiffness in her arms and legs, she stripped down and stepped into the basin. The water only reached mid-shin, but at that moment it was the best thing she had ever felt.   
  


  Gwaedhil handed her one of the soft silk wash cloths they used at home and a bottle of Lothiriel’s favorite scented oil. She looked to the older woman with a raised brow only to get a stiff jerk of a shoulder in return.   
  


  “I thought to be prepared.”   
  


  Lothíriel just shook her head and proceeded to wash herself, allowing Gwaedhil to help with her hair. It took a bit to remove all the sweat and dirt built up through the day, but soon Lothíriel felt more like herself. She had thought to ask for fresh water for her handmaiden, but as soon as she stepped out Gwaedhil stepped in. The woman once again shrugged when Lothíriel gave her a look.   
  


  “If we are going to be in the wilds we best start living as though we are actually living there.”   
  


  Lothíriel bit her lips as she brushed out her hair. Perhaps her handmaiden and friend was finally starting to take her words to heart about differences in culture… or as the words had been bit off, maybe not.   
  


* * *

  
  


  “It is hard to imagine how short a time it has been since we fought beside one another.” Imrahil spoke softly, his voice pitched just enough to be heard by the men who surrounded him. He had enjoyed the day’s hunt, but being back on a horse while amid flying arrows brought back memories of the war. It had only been the bright gaze of his daughter that had kept him from sinking low in despair.  
  


  “Aye, I feel as though at times I am simply in some wonderful dream and shall wake to find the Shadow still over us.” How much Faramir feared this, for what then was the purpose of his brother’s sacrifice? He had found during the war that he was no great warrior, but a man of peace. He no longer had a stomach for battle and bloodshed.   
  


  “I have felt the same, that one morning I shall awake to the sound of my cousin’s laughter.” The morning after Eomer had drifted in his sleep, the laughter of the camp filtering into his dreams. He had awoken, his heart in his throat, believing for a moment that his dear cousin had been there. The realization that he had been dreaming had been both a relief and a sorrow. For he knew that the war was well and truly over, but with it his beloved cousin and uncle had been taken.    
  
 

 “Find comfort, Friend, in the fact that all our people shall now live in peace.” Faramir clasped a hand down on Eomer’s shoulder. Éowyn had spoken of her heartache over the loss of her family, it was something he could understand and knew his beloved’s brother felt as well.     
  


  “Yes, but for how long? This was not the first time Middle-Earth has seen war, and I fear it will not be the last. There will always be those who wish ill on our world.” Still there were those that had followed Shadow that roamed the Mark. Eomer feared should one of these the means to power, what then would become of them?   
  


  “Then let us raise our sons to be strong. There is little else we can do now.” Imrahil glanced over to his sons, watching as they laughed and joked with one another. He had taken but one son with him to battle, though he knew should they have been unsuccessful he would have lost all his children.      
  


  Éomer nodded to his friend in understanding. They were but mortal men, none of them held any magic or means of changing the course of the future. All they could hope to do would be to raise their children right and teach them peace. Even so, evil would always exist in the world, and it would always be seductive.   
  


  The sound of soft footsteps brought him from his darkening mood and to the entrance of the princess’ tent. The young princess walked sedately towards the fire with her handmaiden in tow. She was freshly washed, all the grime from the day wiped away, with her hair bound in a braid down her back. She still wore his old clothing, the fabric and cut cradling her figure like no dress could.   
  


  When the silence of the camp registered, he peeled his eyes from the princess to the rest of his men. An anger filled his chest as he caught sight of the clear desire of each man written across their faces. He swallowed down his first reaction and prepared to rise to escort Princess Lothíriel to the fire. Before he could even stand though, Prince Amrothos took his sister’s hand.   
  


  The princess sat down beside him with a soft smile in his direction. Éomer felt himself go dizzy when he caught a hint of her sent. How long had it been since he had taken in the perfume of a freshly washed woman? Long before the war he was sure.   
  


  A smack to his shoulder settled his thoughts and he took the ale offered to him by Eothain. His old friend handed a similar cup to the princess and flopped himself down into the dirt beside them.   
  


  “I am sorry that there is no wine.” For the first time Eomer felt somewhat inadequate. From the stories he had heard from his friend Imrahil, he knew that the princess was probably used to the taste of sweet wines and not the musky ales that he people drank on a daily basis.    
  


  “Please, my Lord, don’t fret. I know the taste of ale, and I am quite content with it.” To assure him, she lifted the cup to her lips and took a mouthful. The flavor was stronger than he had ever experienced before, somewhat musky and yeasty from the grains used to produce it. She took another drink.    
  


  “Then I hope you are pleased with it. This ale is unlike what you may have sampled in the Golden Hall. It is stronger, heartier, to help sustain one on long journeys.” Eomer had likened it to the heavy breads his mother used to make for the long winter months. The type that dried hard as rocks if left out too long. Many times his mother had scolded him for stealing a half-eaten loaf just so he could dry it in palm-sized pieces. It had been a game to the young boys to throw them at self-made targets in the likeness of orcs.      
  


  “We have a similar drink in Dol Amroth. Our knights use it as a means of keeping them warm on cold nights.” Lothíriel could remember the first time she had snuck down to the barracks with Amrothos, stealing an unsuspecting knight’s wine skin and draining it out behind the training field. To this day she was thankful it had been Elphir who had found them and not Father.   
  


  “I had the privilege of trying it during the war. It was very fragrant and reminded me of summer flowers.” At the time he had wondered how the brewers in Dol Amroth had been able to distil the essence of summer, so sweet and bright the drink had been. Imrahil had explained that their people believed the origins of the drink had its roots in the past with his elven ancestors. He could very well believe it.    
  


  “There is a wild flower which grows along the cliffs, it is small and red as blood. It is believed to have certain powers given to it by the elves. Our people use it in varying ways; to warm the body or heat the blood. The women who make the cordial age it with bushels of the flowers added.” Everyone looked forward to the making of the Blood Cordial in Dol Amroth. From the breweries, sweet steam would rise and fill every corner of the city. For days the scent would linger in the air.  
  


  “Lothíriel, I do not think it is the time to speak of ‘heating the blood.’” Imrahil cleared his throat. He wished he could say that he didn’t know where his daughter had learned of such things, but with his sons there was no doubt.   
  


  “Sorry, Ada.” Lothíriel looked away from her father and into her cup instead. It had not occurred to her just what she had said, she had simply recited what she had been taught by the women that cooked in the palace. Thinking about it now, she was sure that the king must think her wanton.     
  


  Éomer bit his tongue before he could speak, his eyes on the flush of pink along the princess’ cheeks. He was sure the young woman hadn’t meant anything by her words, but the thought of ‘heating the blood’ left him once more dizzy. Determined not to think on it, he rose to his feet in order to start the night’s ceremony.   
  


  “For too long we have forgotten The Great Hunt, embroiled in treachery and war. Tonight we once again join our forefathers in providing for our people. Just as Eorl of old, we shall hunt these grounds, taking only what we need to survive the winter.” Éomer lifted his cup of ale. “Tonight we shall eat and drink under the watchful eyes of Béma. May no horse lose their step and no arrow miss its mark.”   
  


  Lothíriel followed example as all those in the camp lifted their cups as one, taking in a large mouthful of their ale. From the corner of her eyes she could see her father and brothers join as well. Her embarrassment forgotten, she sat waiting with the others for the king to speak once more.

   


  The camp remained quiet as Eothain leaned over to carve a slice of wild boar and handed it to their king. Éomer took the gobbet of meat and held it in his hands. Tradition dictated that as king he was to be given the first bite of the slain in blessing to Béma and the Hunt. Though it was also his right to pass the privilege to another if he deemed them worthy. Because of this, he turned where he sat and handed the piece to the princess.   
  


  “As our guest, I honor you with the first bite.” Eomer twisted until he kneeled before the princess, the small slice of meat firmly between his fingers.    
  


  With a quiet nod, Lothíriel took the meat. No one spoke as she placed the bite in her mouth and chewed. She didn’t understand what had just happened, that was easy to see. Éomer could practically feel the shock of his men. The princess and her family might not understand the significance of the gesture, but his men did. He had just honored Princess Lothíriel, not just as a guest, but as a Rohirrim. According to custom, she would forever be welcomed in Rohan. From that point forward, she was one of them.   
  


  Once the princess swallowed every man once again raised their ale, and as one spoke. “To Béma, may he steady our sword hands. To our King, may he rule in peace. And to Lothíriel Princess, may her beauty once again grace our halls.”   
  


  Éomer drank deeply of his ale, his eyes focused on the rising flush along the princess’ cheeks.   
  


* * *

  
  


  The camp was filled with laughter as the night wore on. Every member of the hunting party eating and drinking their fill. Éomer became so caught up in the enjoyment of the evening he forgot in who’s company he was, and allowed his mouth to run away from him. He had been trading stories and riddles with Prince Amrothos when a little gasp came from behind him and he realized what he had said.   
  


  Turning away from the prince, he noticed the red face of the princess and the shocked expression of her handmaiden. He straightened himself and bowed his head.   
  


  “I apologize, my Ladies. I became caught up in the festivities and forgot where I was.” He dared not look to Imrahil, sure that the man was anything but amused at the talk going on around his young daughter.    
  


  “It is no mind, my Lord. Ale and fine company can easily loosen the tongue.” She couldn’t help but laugh at the pink peeking from behind the king’s beard. Unlike Gwaedhil, she had not been shocked or offended by the bawdy joke he had made. Even so, she couldn’t have helped the pink in her own cheeks. The only men whom she had heard speak so boldly had been her own brothers.    
  


  “I do know stories suitable for mixed company, should you like to hear.” Eomer cleared his throat when his voice cracked halfway through the sentence. He wasn’t sure he enjoyed the way the princess made him feel like a bumbling youth.   
  


  “Please, I would be honored.” Lothíriel gave her full attention to the man before her, anxious to hear what stories he could tell of his people.     
  


  Éomer took a drink of his ale as he thought of the many stories of the Mark. Many he thought, while fine for telling to ladies, would perhaps be too course for Gondorian ears. In the end he chose a story that had been his mother’s favorite.   
  


  “When my mother had been young she had a personal seamstress that lived in the Golden Hall. She was a peculiar woman, but her needlework was revered throughout the Mark. She would sit day in and day out in her chair by the window with her needle and thread. She never stopped but to eat, and then she would stick the needle in the fabric of her dress.   
  “It was days before my mother’s wedding, and the seamstress was determined to finish her dress. She worked late into the night until she could hardly keep her eyes open. When she put away her work, she placed the needle into the collar of her nightdress without a thought and went to bed.   
  “The next morning when she woke she found she could not see, and feared she had become blind from sewing in the moonlight. But she was a good and loyal seamstress and she refused to speak of it. For days after she worked blind to finish my mother’s dress, ignoring the hushed whispers around her. She neither wanted nor needed any pity. In the end she presented my mother with the dress, and it had the most beautiful stitching anyone had ever seen. It matched the stitching binding her eyes.” Éomer felt his heart jump when the princess gave a soft laugh at his story.   
  


  “You lie, my Lord.” Lothíriel continued to giggle at the silly story. She had expected some grand tale of his days as a warrior. A story of him killing a thousand orcs singlehandedly. She was pleasantly surprised by the humorous tale he chose instead.     
  


  “I swear to you, every word is true…” He placed a hand on his heart and made a sweeping gesture with his other.   
  


  “Do not believe him, my Princess, he swears only when he lies.” Eothain shouted from his place a few seats down the fire. He had heard that particular story himself; it was a favorite amongst the children of the Mark.    
  


  “I am wounded my friend.” Eomer turned around to face the other man, hand still on heart.   
  


  “Only your pride.”   
  


  Éomer tossed a small bone at his old friend, all of them laughing when it hit the middle of Eothain’s forehead. He hadn’t felt this free in many years.   
  


  “Lothíriel, you should tell a story.” Amrothos leaned over so he could see his sister on the other side of the king. “You know all of the best tales in Dol Amroth.”   
  


  “I am sure that I would only bore everyone.” Lothíriel glared at her brother, assuring him with her look that she would be talking to him later for putting her on the spot.     
  


  “Go on, my Daughter, you are a captivating storyteller. Just like your mother.” Imrahil smiled sadly. When he had first been married he had spent many a night by the hearth while his wife regaled him with stories. It was a tradition that had carried on these many years by his daughter. He would miss them and her when she finally married as well.    
  


  “Alright then.” Lothíriel sat herself up straight, clearing her throat before starting in on one of the first stories she had learned.   
  


  “There once was a farmer who had two daughters. Both were beautiful. The oldest was like the night with dark hair and eyes like smoke. The youngest like the day, with golden hair and skin like milk.   
  “Every day the two sisters would walk along the cliffs and speak of their days to come. One day they were approached by the young prince, a handsome man who had captured the hearts of every maiden in the realm. He had seen the sisters walking and was set on making one of them his wife.   
  “From that day forward he would visit the two, giving them each courting gifts. For every gift he gave the oldest he gave the youngest a prettier thing. This went on for months until one day the Prince announced his desire to marry the youngest sister.   
  “The oldest grew angry and jealous, her heart hardening against her sister. The next day the two went to walk along the cliffs like they always did. Once alone the oldest turned to her sister and asked:   
  “ _‘Sister Dear, do you love me?_ ’ to which her sister replied: _‘Yes, my sister, with everything that I am.’_    
  “ _‘Then will you not renounce your claim on the Prince?’ ‘Nay, this I will not do.’_    
  “They continued to walk until the oldest turned again to her sister: _‘Sister Dear, do you not love me?_ To which her sister replied _: ‘Yes my sister, to the ends of Arda and beyond.’_    
  “ _‘Then will you not renounce your claim on the Prince?’ ‘Nay, this I will not do.’_    
  “Again they walked until the oldest once more turned to her sister _‘Sister Dear, do you not love me?’_ to which her sister replied _: ‘Yes, my sister, more than the elves love the stars.’_    
  “ _‘Then will you not renounce your claim on the Prince?’ ‘Nay, this I will not do.’_    
  “Again they continued to walk until the oldest turned to her sister one last time _. ‘Dear sister, you say you love me with all that you are, to the ends of Arda and beyond, and more than the elves love the stars, but still you will not renounce your claim on the Prince.’_ To which her sister replied _: ‘I do love you so, my sister, but I also love the prince, and I could never give him up while I still live.’_ _  
_   _“ ‘Then it must be that you should die.’_ With a great heave, the oldest pushed her sister off the cliff and to the waters below.   
  “Days later a fisherman found the youngest sister’s bones washed up along the shore. He gathered them and fashioned her breast-bone into a beautiful harp, the figure of a woman carved into the bone. When he finished the harp began to play alone. Delighted with his creation he traveled to the palace where he gave the harp as a wedding gift for the prince.   
  “During the wedding feast the young fisherman presented the harp to all assembled, the crowed in awe as it began to play on its own. A haunting voice filled the halls as the eyes of the figure on the harp opened and the harp sang:   
  “ _‘Here sits my father, and there my mother so fair, there sits my lover, and my sister dear, who betrayed me, and killed me with never a care.’_ With a great shriek the mouth of the harp opened and blood spilled along the palace floor, and in her fear the oldest sister tried to flee only to slip in her sister’s blood and fall to her death.”   
  


  Everyone in the camp was silent when Lothíriel finished. She clasped her hands together and looked wearily at the king. “I should have picked something else.”   
  


  “No, my Lady, your tale was perfect. Everyone is simply in awe of your talent.” Eomer dared to reach over and take her hand, his fingers curled against her palm with a gentle pressure.   
  


  At once every man raised their voice in agreement with their king. It still didn’t keep the pink from rising along her cheeks.   
  


* * *

  
  


  After a few more stories and jokes the feast wound down as the men began to bed down for the night. Oiled meat and ale filled their bellies and the quiet murmur about the next day’s hunt drifted towards Lothíriel. She rested next to the King, her eyes barely managing to remain open. Gwaedhil had retired earlier in the night, but Lothíriel was loath to leave. It was only when a yawn forced its way past her lips that she stood to bid everyone a good-night.   
  


  Lothíriel was surprised when a large hand was thrust out in front of her. She blinked at it a moment before allowing her eyes to follow the arm up to the bright eyes of the King.   
  


  “If you will allow me to escort you to your tent?”   
  


  “Of course, my Lord.” She slipped her arm through his, her body pressed lightly into his side as he led her toward the line of tents circling the fire. He still smelled of the heavy wood smoke and leather, a scent that she knew she would not soon forget.   
  


  “How did you enjoy your first day on the Hunt, Princess?” Looking down at her, Eomer wondered if he should be silent. She looked dead on her feet, ready to sleep where she stood. But he was at times a selfish man, and he wished to know her thoughts on the matter.   
  


  “I enjoyed myself very much.” She stopped for a moment to look up at him. “I would like to thank you for inviting me.”   
  


  “It was my pleasure, my Lady.” Urging her forward, Eomer held onto her arm tighter. It would not due for the young woman to fall asleep before she made it to her cot. “And I would ask if you would do me the favor of riding with me again tomorrow?”   
  


  “Of course, my Lord.”    
  


  Their steps slowed to a halt as they reached her tent. Éomer slid his arm out of hers and with little thought took her hand. He was silent a moment, just looking down at the Princess before speaking.   
  


  “I wonder, are all the stories of Dol Amroth that sad?” He had wondered since she had finished her tale. The story had seemed so at odds with the smiling princess.   
  


  “Many, but not all. Perhaps it is from living by the sea; seeing the beauty in sadness.” She had never really thought about it, the amount of sorrowful stories of her people.   
  


  “I hope that you will never have to look for such a thing in your lifetime.” He turned now to stand fully before her. His great height casting a shadow over her form.   
  


  “I believe it is too late for that now, but maybe I shall have no reason to again.” Her smile was sad. She doubted that there were many that had not known the touch of sadness that lived in the world. One day, one day though the war would be nothing more than a long-ago memory casting pale shadows over Middle-Earth.   
  


  “I dearly hope so, my Princess.” He took a breath, as though with his silence he could will his words to be so. After a moment he pushed the sadness away, smiling down at the woman before him. “Now, I shall bid you goodnight.” Lifting the hand still in his, he pressed a small kiss to the back before releasing it and turning to go.   
  


  “Goodnight, my Lord.”   
  


  Lothíriel watched him head back to the fire and thought that the King of Rohan had seen too much sadness in his life, and had never once looked for the happiness he still had. 

 

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so that took way longer than I had planned. Sadly between lack of muse for this story and lots of other RL stuff, I haven’t been able to work on this. Now, I can’t say when I will have the next chapter up, but I am working on it. Just know that right now I have no plans on abandoning this story, I have worked too long and hard on it to just quit.
> 
> Also, as for the two stories presented in this story. “The Blind Seamstress” is actually something my Father came up with one day, we were joking around and coming up with stories when he come up with this. I thought it sounded like something that the Rohirrim would tale. And yes, I have permission to use it from him. The second story that Lothíriel tales is just “The Twa Sisters” or whatever other version you might know it as. It is one of my favorite stories, and as my favorite version in the song “The Bonny Swans” I thought it was an appropriate tale for Dol Amroth.
> 
>  
> 
> Next Chapter: Second day of the Hunt, a bit of teasing, and a backstory.
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note 2: Alright, so this the first multi-chapter Eomer/Lothiriel story I’ve done. I’ve almost got the whole first book plotted out. I’d say it will be about 20 or so chapters long.  
> Now, I’m doing this story in two “books” mainly because as I was plotting it I realized that it would flow better that way. Though as to how long the second book will be I’m not sure. 
> 
>  
> 
> Now, I want to give a huge shout-out to uruvielnumenesse over on Tumblr, as she has been a HUGE help in developing this, being my sounding board and generally fangirling over LOTR and Thranduil. Go check out her tumblr, she is a lovely person!
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


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